


The Lion and the Maiden

by efficaceous



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bad Jokes, Cliff hangers and heart wrenching my specialty, Dom/sub, F/M, I hope?, I love making not so veiled references to other fandoms!, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm not good at happy endings, Is it funny or is it emo?, M/M, Multi, Oh hey look the black widow is going to make an appearance?, Service Submission, Spider robinson, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author regrets, There will be Porn, anne bishop, clue, cross over ALL the things!, dark jewels, did you want a happy ending?, labrynth, more tags as i write, refer to my specialities, write it and the porn will come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 23,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/efficaceous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I like service submission AND service tops but I haven't seen enough of either and I LOVE BDSM AU's so here is a take on Phlint. More will be revealed as I write. I'm new to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like a glove fits the hand

**Author's Note:**

> Not AoU compliant, Phil's clearly not dead.

The thing is, most people expect Clint to be the submissive one. They expect Phil’s composure and quiet, calm, strength to equate to dominance, consciously or not, and fail completely to understand the way the two men suit each other so exactly.

 

Who can blame the outsiders for their mistaken perceptions? When walking past Coulson’s office, back in the early days of Hawkeye’s employment with SHIELD, and catching Phil patiently explaining to Clint how variance is really just the standard deviation squared, and how to calculate it, well, societally we’re just ingrained to see teachers as dominant and students as submissive.

 

How very wrong we are. When we see a lion crouched over a maiden, we immediately think of the beast as the aggressor. But what if the lion is protecting its Mistress?

 

For men like Phil, all his work, his diligence and patience and badassdom, these were all functions of service. For most of his life it had been general service, to no one particular dom. He got by just fine, thank you, enjoying the frisson of pleasure slipping up the back of his neck when he could help, or teach, or save. It didn’t matter if the person he was serving was a sub or a dom. Maybe that made him a switch?

 

For a while in college he tried domming, going out to BDSM clubs with some pretty young thing. The PYT was always terribly eager to be given directions. But while Phil could fake giving the correct responses, it remained a facade. He had been driven to this type of trial by having one too many doms get offended when he offered to help tutor them, or edit an essay of theirs. They didn’t need a sub showing them up. Sometimes they got more than offended; they got aggressive. Never let it be said that Phil Coulson only learned to fight in the Rangers. He had to learn much earlier than that.

 

Traditional doms disdained Phil’s preferred type of service because they saw it as threatening to their dominance. Subs wanted him to be stricter, harder, to punish and to reward them. Little wonder then that Phil had skated by on the whiffs and hints of submission he was allowed to offer within the context of his position as SHIELD for over a decade before Clint Barton showed up and wrecked the delicate house of cards on sand that was Phil’s inner balancing act. Count on a carny to see through a balancing act and find all Phil’s weak spots.

 

 


	2. Aww no... kittens?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It continues!  
> Warning: Excessive use of italics.  
> No kittens were harmed in the writing of this chapter.

Clint’s father had been very invested in being The Dominant in his household. Although he paid plenty of lip service talking about how much he looked down on men who sired subs, he resented the strength evident in both of his sons. Clint and Barney were both easy to identify early; strong, smart boys who made friends easily. Both jockeyed for favor at home with the mother; but it was a loving competition, based on who could do more for her, who could make her laugh more quickly. Their father never lifted a finger to help their mother; considering it below his dignity as The Dominant. He also never made her laugh.

 

When Clint and Barney’s parents died in the car crash, the boys felt equally bereft and freed. After a few attempts at foster care culminated with a dominant foster mother trying to whip Clint for undermining her authority when she chose to punish a younger sub in her care (Clint was sneaking the kid some bread, his instincts always to protect), the brothers went on the run.

 

Few places were willing to hire two underage boys and NO places were willing to hire two underage dominant boys. So on the road, Clint would pretend to be submissive. It wasn’t that hard, Clint was a natural mimic, and it soothed their employers enough that the two usually got fed or paid. Usually.

 

But then they found the circus, and Trickshot could immediately see who Clint really was. And he used it against Clint, to train him as The World’s Best Marksman. Because Trick knew that if he put a live target in front of Clint, even if it was a stranger or an animal, that Clint would do _anything_ to make sure his target stayed safe.

 

Clint mastered the Robin Hood Shot when he was 14 because Trick covered the rest of the board in kittens. _Kittens_! Who does that shit?

 

Over time Trick could get away with using the companys food as an incentive for Clint- ruin the shot, ruin the food, no one eats. _Because of you_ was always implied. If you miss, you’ll hit the new safety harness the aerialists need. If you miss, you’ll shoot holes in the Ringmaster’s tophat. For Clint, perfection wasn’t a goal it was a necessity. Every other person’s well being seemed to depend on his aim.

 

If Clint had been a different person, more like his father maybe, the pressure and responsibility would have twisted him. He would have started to resent those around him who were weak. He would have failed, not just once but again and again, prioritizing his own sanity above his coworkers.

 

But this was Clint.  

And Clint never missed.

  
Until the day Trickshot told him to take out some bland dude in a suit who was walking around the circus looking ...enchanted? Lost? Maybe both?


	3. A grenade in his boxer briefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I am doing. Hopefully good grammar and interesting vocab count. Still abusing italics.

“That’s the one.”

Trickshot’s knotty knuckles made his fingers look misformed somehow. Clint had always shuddered when the older man put a hand on him, to correct, to compliment (rarely) or more often, to hurt him. Hurting a dom wasn’t _actually_ that much harder than hurting a sub. And Trick was an expert at both.

 

The pointing, unhealthy looking finger indicated some rube in a suit. A nice suit. Although Clint could only see the back of the man, he still managed to see plenty. Hawkeye, right?

 

Here is what Clint saw, in order:

 

Suit.

Half break.

_(Light blue pinstripe?)_

Hard to tell in this light. _Confirm later._

Very short haircut.

Brunet.

Very small freckles on the back of the neck.

Shoulders- broad.

Combine haircut and build: military, possibly ex military _(lack of proliferation of freckles)_.

Tactical soles on leather dress shoes.

Revised: **DEFINITELY** military. _Threat_?

Knife on left calf, small caliber gun under right arm _(left handed_ ), something at the small of the back. ( _taser_?)

Ear piece. Getting directions from elsewhere. _Who? Why?_

 

The man in the suit paused and tilted his head. Not obviously, not to anyone else but Clint.

 _(3 degrees? 7 degrees at the most)_  Towards the ear with the communication device in it.

 

It was the head tilt that gave Clint the first hint.

 

It spoke to him of respect, of listening attentively and carefully and making sure that your body language supported those facts. The subtlety of the move said it was unconscious now, a mere vestige of the full motion usually conveyed to the speaker.

 

The man’s hands had remained in his pockets the whole time, strolling casually through the spec. But the casualness wasn’t simply a facade. His shoulders had remained relaxed; his movement unhurried. His face was turned up to the paper displays. Now Clint could see his jawline, and his profile.

 

Previous broken nose?

Firm jaw. Clean shaven.

_NOT here on pleasure. But not expecting immediate conflict either._

Business. _Business that could turn ugly_.

 

All these observations, the man’s few steps, took less than a minute for Clint. Trickshot had waited for him to take in the details and now expected a report. Clint… paused.

 

Watched for another minute.

He didn't need more data to confirm what he saw.

 

The man was here to try and talk _someone_ into _something_. He was capable of defending himself, but this wasn’t an offensive move. The suited man didn’t need the weapons either, but someone else _thought_ he did. _Hint number 2_. The outfit followed some type of governmental guidelines in its functionality but the details were all thanks to the owner. The fit, the stripe, the break. _The terribly flattering cut around his ass_. A man with an eye for the minutiae, like Clint himself.

 

Clint was enjoying observing the sub in the suit _(because when had Clint needed more than two hints to infer?)_. He wove his way through the people, deftly avoided the vendors trying to tempt him into seeing various absurdities. He was strong, yet graceful, And… invisible. Nearly. Clint couldn’t see the man’s face but somehow every other patron’s glance just slid away. Th sub had mastered the art of blending in. Except to one like Clint, who could see all the power and potential the man contained.

 

“Well?” Trickshot broke into Clint’s thoughts with a rough impatience.

 

“He’s… uh, he’s the mark?” Clint made his face look dismissive. It was great to have a face that was easy to read, especially if you were the one writing on it.

 

“He looks too casual to be here alone. I think he’s armed. And I think you’re going to tell me where he’s armed, and with what.” The pleasant tone twisted halfway through the comment to turn into a threat.

 

“I need a …. closer look.” _Ah fuck, bad idea._

 

“A closer look boy? Since when did the great Hawkeye need to be closer than 30 meters to tell me any mark’s life story?” Suspicion. Mocking. There was no pride anywhere hidden in those words. It was all about what Clint could do for Trick. How he could be used. _Well fuck that_.

 

“Believe me or not, I need a close look to see what weapons he’s carrying. Could be a switchblade up his sleeve or it could be a grenade down his pants, and I know we need to know.” Clint still hadn't gotten to see the man’s full face. Or his crotch, for the record. So a grenade was entirely possibly hidden in his briefs. _Boxer briefs? Focus!_

 

“Fine. Get down there and get back in a hurry. If he’s an issue, I want to handle it before the blowoff.” Trick wasn't paying attention to him anymore; at the mention of a grenade he had reverted to watching the man wander through the crowd. “A goddamned grenade…just go scope him out.”

  
Clint turned and went, hurrying down from his perch to meet the man who had come to the circus dressed for a business meeting, and who was, entirely likely, in fact, to have a grenade in his boxer briefs at any given time.


	4. It's a trick.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly working my way through this plot, baby steps.  
> Here is a pic for reference of the le freckles.  
> http://bethbethbeth01.tumblr.com/post/49342534281/iamjennifergrey-im-sorry-have-you-met-my
> 
> Also Clint in this story has some level of hearing loss but Coulson doesn't know, hence the lip reading confusion.  
> Our boys are so ass backwards in this chapter, and they don't know quite how to fix it.

It wasn't a grenade.

It was a flash bomb.

But that came a bit later.  

 

First Clint insinuated himself into the crowd wandering the midway and worked his way steadily to the sub in the well fitting suit. He still hadn't seen the man’s face and his curiosity bloomed like a flower, a full 68% of his mental processes consumed by wondering what color the man’s eyes were, how he smiled, if the freckles also covered his nose?

 

He had been tracking the man’s progress through the mass of people but stopped suddenly when he realized the guy had stopped as well. And was staring up at a larger than life poster.

Of The Great Hawkeye. _Well.. shit_.

 

As he took a breath and approached, the suited dude turned and casually opined “Can you really shoot one card out of a deck blindfolded?”

 

“Nah man, it’s a trick.” Off balance, Clint had spoken honestly. He couldn't figure out how the sub had seen him approaching, when he himself hadn't even see the man’s eyes yet. _Fuck that._ He stepped directly in front of the guy and crossed his arms, putting on extra dom swag like a layer of chain-mail.

 

The sub didn't flinch, didn't quail or even lower his eyes. Blue eyes that freaking twinkled when a slow smile grew on his face. Clint drank in the details, assessing. The guys hairline wasn't perfect. He had crows feet around his eyes and two lines between his eyebrows that were probably frown lines when they were at home. And freckles _everywhere_.  They were clearly from recent sun exposure and not a permanent fixture. Clint dragged his eyes away from re cataloging the man’s every pore and focused on the mission at hand. Time to provoke a response.

 

“So who you here kowtow to?” 

 

Instantly, the man’s ever so slight smile disappeared. His eyes stopped sparkling and his nostrils flared a degree.

 

“I have a business proposal to discuss with you, Mr. Barton, and I have no intention of bowing or scraping to gain your ….goodwill. “

Huh, Clint could have sworn the guy had been about to say ‘cooperation’. His mouth had moved towards ‘cooperation’ and then changed course. The sub already thought he was a posturing dick. _Terrific_. He was hoping he could impress the guy for at least 5 minutes.

 

“No, hey, I mean, we can talk about whatever you want.” The words were out of Clint’s mouth before his brain could register surprise, but by that point he just gave up the tough act and opened his hands, supplicating.

 

He could see a very small burn on the man’s left hand, where he had carelessly _(this man was careless?, his brain wondered_ ) burnt his hand while ironing le stunning suit. There were bags under the eyes that spoke of too much work, restless nights, and loneliness. _Conclusion: This strong sub had no one to care for him personally._

 

Unfortunately this sympathy must have slipped through into Clint’s face and the sub’s mien shuttered even more completely. One hand slid to the small of his back ( _definitely a taser, Clint’s mind registered._ ) Clint lunged to the left, behind the giant poster of his own torso and started weaving his way through the pylons at a run.

 

The sub was right behind him! The reach had been a feint, to see which way he’d run. _Shit shit shit._  Clint had the advantage of knowing where he was going, of being younger and maybe a tiny bit desperate. The sub was just …faster. As Clint leaned into a chicane trying to flank the dude, a hand reached out of nowhere and firmly gripped his bicep.

 

“Stop.” The sub growled. His grasp flexed slightly and Clint could feel the strength in those fingers. Clint stopped. He didn't have to. He could have kept running, dodged and weaved and made a merry chase. But he could already tell the suit guy was in really, really good shape. It wasn't a case of 'if' he’d get caught, merely when. Maybe if Clint had been eating regularly, or healthy foods instead of fried circus crap, if he gotten more than 5 hours of sleep a night, ever, he could have lost the guy.

 

The guy hadn't hurt any civilians. He hadn't started the chase; Clint had. And while these thoughts ran like frantic gerbils in Clint’s mind, the sub hadn't moved. He had waited, _politely?_ , for Clint to process his predicament.

 

“Ok, let’s chat.” Clint twisted suddenly and crowded the guy up against the nearest pylon. _Thank fuck for gymnasts._ He didn't try and lose the contact however, he increased it, plastering himself against the front of the suited man, whose eyes widened in surprise.

 

“You had something to say to me?” He could feel the sub breathing shallowly as Clint’s hands pressed on his suited chest, not rubbing, just… pressing. Too many layers to tell if his nipples had risen to Clint’s bait. _Alas_.  Another inhale, this one deeper.

 

As quickly as a very quick thing, the facade of 'startled sub being seduced' dropped away _(so many layers, this one)_ and the hand not clutching his bicep had cuffed him. **Cuffed him?!** He knew, **_he knew_** better than to put his hands in positions that allowed for easy containment but he’d done it, trying to mess with the sub and cop a feel, if he was honest.

 

“Now I think you’ll be more willing to listen to me, Mr Barton?” The sub’s voice was coolly professional. “These aren't virgin day cuffs; they don’t have a safe release. I know a dom such as yourself may be unfamiliar with wearing cuffs, but let me assure you that escape would be… inadvisable.” Again, Clint stared at the man’s mouth and knew he had been planning to say ‘challenging’ before changing his mind.

 

Clint had been in cuffs before. He didn't like to think about those nights after his various escape attempts from a particularly cruel foster dom who wanted to teach him how to be “Masterful”. He knew he wasn't getting free until the sub let him. Or until the sub stopped paying attention so he could pull a pick from his belt. Either way.   
  
Clint stepped back a respectful distance and lowered his eyes, dropping his shoulders. He could play these games all night if he had to, until he could make a break for it. Trickshot was going to be so pissed. Bastard would probably break one of his drawing fingers again.

 

“How are you planning on getting me out of here?” Clint kept his tone casual and non confrontational; he was genuinely curious.

 

“Flash bang bomb. The noise will confuse the patrons and the smoke will make the employees think there’s been an accidental fire.”

 

“A flash bomb? Is it in your pants then?” Again with the curiosity, Clint just _had_ to know.

 

A real grin appeared for a moment then disappeared, “I knew you were called Hawkeye but I didn't realize how good you really were.” The sub had angled his body away from Clint’s and easily extricated the explosive device.

 

“Ready to run?” The dude was… magnificent. He had outmaneuvered Clint handily, without rumpling the suit. Clint shifted uncomfortably, realizing that even though he was in cuffs, supposedly the most humiliating of accouterments for a dom, he was nearly half hard.

 

“Ready when you are, sir.” He winked at the sub broadly and bounced on his toes.

 

 


	5. Married to my work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dominist = menenist

The sub's (Coulson's, he had introduced himself in some weirdly professional way that seemed like a handshake would be the next logical step except, you know, _handcuffs_ ) plan had gone off perfectly. Things went 'boom'. Civilians ran, employees searched, and Clint and Coulson sauntered inconspicuously ( _Sauntered. Inconspicuously._ ) out of the circus and into an aggressively nondescript black SUV. 

After about 20 minutes of driving during which Clint managed to do all of the following:

  * Belt his own seatbelt. (Safety first.)
  * Adjust his seatback to 70 degrees.
  * Find the seat heater.
  * Put the seat heater on max.
  * Check his hair in the sun visor. (Still a sharp looking man.)
  * Try every. single. radio station. 
  * Decide to cycle back and forth through the four that seemed to tickle him (For the record: Classic rock, mid century pop, Hard rock, and a talk show about pets.)



...before Coulson finally fixed him with a half a stare that indicated he was ready to discuss things.

"I work for..." was all he managed to get out before Clint cut him off.

"... a super secret government agency blah blah blah. Yeah, man, I got all that. You aren't here to kill me because... obviously, unless you're really bad at it, which doesn't seem like your style, so you're here to recruit me into your ranks because of my mad skillz, yo."

Coulson did a slow blink, but that was the only change. This sub was nigh on unflappable. Clint liked it, liked _him_. 

"Yes, Mr. Barton I am here to recruit you.  To SHIELD. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. But I need you to know that if you should choose not to accept my offer, the other option will be using you as bait for a Russian child assassin we've been trying to hire for some time. "

_Well, shit._

"You should also know that SHIELD has an aggressive anti discrimination and subs rights movement policy. Behavior like you displayed back there will not be tolerated. " This time Phil actually peeked out of the corner of his eye to see how this caveat would go over. SHIELD actually _would_ accept Barton in with his neanderthal mindset, but he wouldn't fit Phil's plans. Without knowing the Widow's 'persuasion' having a dominist on the team could be a hazard to them all.

"Nah, that was all for you, baby. There's just something about a well dressed sub that sets me off. " Clint was practically cooing. Fucking his submissive supervisor might be a good way to move up the ranks quickly, and it's not like it would be a _chore_. And maybe he could convince the guy to eat a little more, sleep a little more, let Clint take care of him?

Clint's abstracted musing was quickly broken by the sub's immediate response.

"While I can see that from your perspective that statement was meant to be beguiling, you need to know that I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered by your interest..."

"No, no, of course not, Sir. Forget I said it. Please. Forget it." Clint's face was aflame. Inwardly he was horrified at himself. Of course this smart, successful, skilled sub would want nothing to do with a guy like him. Never mind that all the stereotypical dom behavior he had throw out at the sub was a put on, learned from years of hiding his true persona of a caring service top. Coulson saw the behavior and made his assessment. Fucking first impressions. 

"Consider it forgotten.  We're almost there. Would you like the key to your cuffs?" Phil's face was a mask, his voice carefully neutral, perfectly modulated.  The dom was hot. He hadn't such a visceral reaction to anyone in... years. And maybe the dom would have let him show him where the best archery stores were in the city (researched already, of course), or how to make sure you got the whole range to yourself...But that attitude- No! Focus. 

'I can still show him those things, without an agenda,' Phil decided. He would do what he could. 

"Yeah, no, no key needed." Clint held up his _free_ hands and chuckled.  "I always keep a pick on my belt. When I seat belted myself I pulled it. Do you want these back?" He dangled the cuffs from his fingers. 

Phil's mask didn't slip. No surprise was evident on his face or in his manner. 

"Well done, Prospective Agent Barton. If you hadn't gotten free before we arrived, you would have had to take remedial courses on personal defense and anti kidnapping theory before you even started on actual agent training."

Aww no, classes? Classes meant homework. Clint wasn't so good with homework. Came from not having a home. And the letters like to switch places and stuff when he was trying to figure them out. 

Before he had time to begin to worry in earnest, they had pulled into an underground parking deck.

They had arrived at SHIELD.


	6. The Status Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I looked ahead (...yeah?) and this fic should run 13/14 chapters. That means I have the vaguest notion of how the rest of the plotting will run. I'll continue to try and post new chapters every other day. (On the days I don't post here, I'm writing my 4th step resentments. Good times.)
> 
> Comments on any thoughts are welcomed, nay, encouraged!

In the years that followed, the easy banter and not-so-seamless cooperation between the two men developed into one of the most respected agent/handler teams in SHIELD. They tackled missions no other sane team would even consider, including but not limited to:

  * The Child-Slave Rebellion
  * The Glandolinian War
  * The capture of Arthur Darger, noted turncoat general 
  * Budapest
  * A post-storm super power of some juvenile delinquents in the UK
  * And most notably the tracking and assimilation of The Black Widow.



 

Natasha turned out to be nothing like the file Coulson had carefully curated from years of scraps of rumors and black ops chatter,

 

First of all, she was aoriented, neither dominant nor submissive nor a switch (Rare as those were, they had dutifully tested her after she hadn't registered as either a sub or a dom. The techs were still scratching their heads and one had been planning to write her dissertation on the Red Room’s effect on their subjects orientations before Phil gently suggested that the Widow wouldn't appreciate such scrutiny. The tech got the hint and no heads were lost. ) She could and did still use sexuality on missions as needed, but “at home” she presented a completely null dynamic.

 

Secondly, she was even younger than Phil had feared, still in late adolescence. He had sweated for a few days trying to figure out what to do if she was under 18, in terms of guardianships and such. He still suspected she had fabricated the documentation they acquired soon after stating her age as 19 and 3 months. Ultimately, he could protect her better if he went along with this version of reality, so he failed to mention his qualms.

 

Finally, she seemed to be a completely perfect addition to Strike Team Delta (which was really just Phil, Clint and whoever else was free and awesome at any given time.) Since a handler and an asset alone had a limited number of applications, finding Natasha and learning to work effortlessly with her had given all of them a much wider range of potential operations to be involved in.

 

Nat and Clint left the objective picking to Coulson. New recruits were often shocked to learn of Agent Coulson’s orientation (It was considered necessary information during an op in case of subdrop or topdrop post mission.) Coulson seemed to call all the shots on Delta’s op’s. Clint had been hassled a few times about “taking orders from a fucking queer sub”  and “working with that neutered robot” but after he subsequently shot them in the asses with arrows from ceiling vents _whilst they were fucking the partner of their choice,_  such commentary soon died away.

 

In other words, for a few years, everything was golden. Granted, Phil still couldn't find a dom to put him down nearly often enough, often relying on professional services vetted through another alphabet agency. Clint took home a few too many kittens and puppies and sad old dogs from the shelter before Coulson gently suggested that he volunteer his time reading books to underprivileged kids to work on his own reading instead.

Nat watched, and listened and let her pique morph into irritation, then transform into frustration.

 

The two of them functioned like a well oiled machine, and they clearly liked each other’s company. Team Delta had a rep as the team that got impossible shit done, but Coulson also made them cocoa and invited them over for movie nights when the jet lag was too rough. The long lingering glances Clint made whenever Coulson wore one of his Brioni suits for an event. The way Phil kept powdered donuts in his desk because those were Clint’s all time favorite snack.

  
The two were fucking wrecked for each other, and Natasha was getting well and truly fed up with the impasse they were in. Coulson's implacability suffered when he hadn't been in subspace in far too long, which had become the norm rather than an exception after he met Clint. Barton's laser focus during missions wasn't compromised but the intense need to protect and care afterwards always left Natasha feeling smothered. They both needed appropriate outlets for their needs; she could easily see that. It was just getting them to acquiesce that would be hard. 

 


	7. Von Ecemo's Disease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok I'll be honest, this is NOT where I thought this story was going. So we're back into flying blind by the seat of our pants. 
> 
> Nerdy Phil:  
> https://hypersonic55.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/agents-of-shield-marvel-ragtag-episode-21-abc.jpg  
> Phil's Nerdy Bag:  
> http://www.stuffthatilike.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/leather-briefcase.jpg

Don't imagine that Phil and Clint were stoically platonic their entire professional career. Ops arose wherein either one or both of them were required to display their orientation. Or play it up.

 

But the last time, the time that sent Natasha stalking away from them as soon as the Helicarrier landed, was an op in New Jersey (of all places!) They had been tasked with infiltrating a large pharmaceutical company that was suspected of weaponizing epidemic encephalitis. Alas, Natasha had already taken a run at the company's president and thus couldn’t show her face on the premises without inciting alarms, drama and possible mobilization of the national guard.

 

The president of the company, April Cherwinski, was a known philanderer who loved to debauch uptight, older, male subs. She had a habit of using them, gaining their undying devotion, then dropping them, firing them and blackballing them out of the industry. A dirty game, but not unusual for a sadistic female dominant in an industry that still thought a dom without a dick was some unusual and unpleasant anomaly.

 

Because of her rather unique penchant, Fury had personally instructed Phil to insert himself medium term and try to get the president’s attention.  Clint was to remain nearby at all times as backup, but going in basically under his true orientation, a mild mannered, partnered, but flirtatious, dom. He had been hired to look over the company's HR policies, a job that entailed lots of reading (for SHIELD techs offsite) and lots of schmoozing (for Clint onsite). SHIELD also wanted to know which of the company’s science teams had been tasked with the weaponization and who specifically thought of using a disease that had killed or incapacitated nearly two million people worldwide and was then effectively forgotten by the entire scientific community?

 

On the morning of his first day in the executive office wing (as an accounting consultant), still in his room, Coulson stood looking in the full length mirror beside Clint, checking over his own outfit one last time.  Phil so rarely wore his glasses to work, and paired with a dweeby large check plaid shirt, thick brown tie and navy dad sweater, he looked utterly… harmless. He had combed his hair angled back in a way that somehow made his hairline look even more receding, and was clasping his hands carefully, suggesting he felt not only clumsy but out of place. The real man was anything but. Clint marveled at the change effected by a few thoughtfully chosen pieces of clothing, a different hairstyle and a simple hand gesture.

 

Finally assured that every last piece was perfect, Coulson turned away from the full length mirror in his extended-stay hotel room. This was the last time Clint would be in the room, from here on out they would be strangers unless and until they met ‘professionally’ at work.

 

“Naaaard...” Clint teased.

 

“Thank you so much for your contribution Agent Barton.” Phil’s dry voice was completely devoid of any emotional response to the well meaning taunt.

“I am in fact, as you well know, aiming to look ‘nerdy’ as you say. Clearly you would agree that I have been terribly successful.”

 

“Yes, sir. Very successful. Go get em’ tiger. Rawr.” Clint’s dispassionate delivery matched Phil’s perfectly, and had the desired effect; the sub cracked a smile.

 

“I need to remember to smile _strategically_ while on this operation.” Coulson recomposed his face with a too broad, too eager smile across it.

 

“She’ll buy it boss, no question. She’ll take one look at those poindexter glasses and baby blues hidden behind em’ and invite you into her office for a ‘private consultation’”. Clint made air quotes around ‘private consultation’.

“Then after you’ve overwhelmed her with your geeky competance, she’ll nod off as you recite the million digits of pi or something, and you can just wham bam grab the files and scram.”

 

This time Coulson actually laughed. A tiny laugh, granted, but the sound made a thrill go up the dom’s back.

 

“We should be so lucky. You’d better leave now if you want to get to work on time.” Phil glanced pointedly at the wall clock showing 7:05am.

 

“We have to be there by 8am. It’s a 15  minute walk from here to ‘my’ apartment, then 20 to work. I’ve got plenty of time! “ Clint protested.

 

“Not if you want to get there early and look like a good guy by learning all the secretaries coffee orders for tomorrow….” Phil countered.

 

“Excellent point as always, sir.” With a snarkily snappy salute, Clint vacated the hotel room.

 

“And I have to be extra early to look like a good boy, like the very _best_ boy…” Phil continued, even though he was speaking to the vacant room.

  
“Here we go,” were his final words to the emptiness as he stepped out the door, carrying one double leather strapped bag in one hand and Nalgene water bottle in the other.


	8. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we are clearly off the rails here people.   
> I knew Nat wanted to scope some stuff out and lay out some background/exposition but she's a very strange lens to see a story through.

Natasha has thoughtfully taken over Clint’s usual ventilation shaft spying duties in his absence. Granted, she didn't inform him (or anyone) of her charitable gesture but such is the nature of being a super amazing spy; you want to see things no one else sees and know things no one else knows.

 

Natasha sees quite a few things in her time in the vents, but she hasn't yet been able to piece together all the information into a cohesive narrative.

 

Fury: Has multiple eye patches, all identical. Talks to himself, mostly commentary about the incompetence of others, but occasionally snippets of dialogue from Monty Python films. (Note: Get evidence recorded in case leverage is ever needed.) Dominant and sadistic, but excessive concern about consent issues- possible recent bad breakup? Unable to determine preferred partners gender. Needs more observation. Planning to put together a super-team in the near future.

 

Natasha decides to give the team her own special once over, create her own personal dossier. If she presents Fury with her findings when she’s done, well then, that’s her way of being helpful.

 

Stark: Truly an all around awful person. Grating in every way. Switch, bisexual, polyamorous, Also into robots and cybernetic sexual enhancements. Has designed various sex toys/fucking machines for his partners as well as various prosthetics. Stares at pictures of Steve Rogers’ ass when he’s sad. Listens to terrible rock music on speaker but is often wearing ear buds playing Disney. (Possible Little?) See also: Pepper Potts, Colonel Rhodes. (Look into Howard Stark abusive dom charges likely filed and then dropped.)

 

Rogers: Frequently socializes with Stark in his off hours, slips into Daddy Dom mode. Unless he notices a cybernetic metal arm in the design phase, in which case he hares off all spooked like a horse. Very regimented schedule with routine visits to descendants of the Howling Commandos, various art and sculpting classes and a sub basement gym where he has broken 13 heavy bags this month.

 

Thor: Appears to be a proud submissive albeit with very low actual kink interests. Bisexual, into pale brunettes. Spends most of his time off-planet or kneeling next to Doctor Foster’s chair while she works. When she pets his hair, he leans his head against her leg.

Natasha almost wishes she had an orientation, to feel that special. Almost.

 

 ~~Banner:~~  Here Natasha stops in her evaluations. She was properly prepared to see The Big Guy from her hacked readings of the personnel files Fury kept on each potential member of his mega team but there was very little about Banner the man. The Big Guy is clearly a Dom, but is thrown into a rage when subs fear him. Banner is even more obviously a sub, but terrified of all doms. Neither one shows interest in building a ‘traditional’ D/s relationship. And how could they? They both need something different.

 

Banner (Revised): Investigate previous relationships. See: Betty Ross (switch), ascertain how the power dynamics worked.  Bruce spends most of his time either working, volunteering, or doing various forms of yoga and meditation. He seems… lonely. The Hulk, when he shows up, is enraged by everything. Overall? Unstable and getting worse.

 

She resolves to continue her observations. Time will reveal more about how the team will fit together. Clint and Coulson might be great on the team, or they might both end up pissy when they get less attention from the other. She shakes her head. Those two don’t see what’s in front of them.   
  
Coulson with his totally unsettling competence that has always ended up a liability in romantic arenas; Clint with his utterly selfless dominant devotion.

 

Another two pieces of the puzzle, None fit together yet. But if they were to have their edges softened, sharpened… She can see the team Fury wants to build and admits, it is impressive. But there are a lot of ‘ifs’ in that equation.

  
She’s mixed her metaphors. Time to go watch the fish in the aquarium. The fish don’t have to think about who to love or who to hurt. They’re like Natasha, surrounded in a world of their own, always cushioned from others by a cool distance. She likes the fish. They seem to like her. But who can tell? If no one ever gets close enough, they could just be running away, very, very slowly. 


	9. Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter here, busy holiday here. I prefer to keep posting on schedule even if it's just a short scene.

 

Coulson arrived the proscribed 20 minutes early. He introduced himself to the buildings receptionist and got his security pass (in the name of Phillip Collins Jr.) and found his desk on the 3rd floor. He unpacked the items in his leather bag, a small succulent, a miniature blue british phone box, and a kneeling pillow. He tucked the pillow under his desk so only a small corner was showing, as if he were ashamed of it but unwilling to leave it at home. With this ‘window dressing’ out of the way, he located the break room and busied himself inspecting the selection of K-cups ‘nervously’ until finally a young woman in a pencil skirt and a thin silver collar entered.

 

“Oh! I’m so sorry…” Phil opened with an unnecessary apology.

“Hmm? Oh, you must be the new consultant, Patrick, is it?” The woman smiled as her eyes took his measure and clearly rated him as “sub” and “non threatening” and possibly even “in need of protection’.

“Phillip, actually, but you can call me anything, really, it’s no big deal.” Phil consciously wrung his hands a little, knitting his brows.

“Phillip, yes of course. Welcome to Altrigeneology Labs. Did someone show you your desk and stuff?”

“Well…” He let the word trail off.

“Of course not, you got here too early. What a nice change! Our last finance guy was always coming in late, and bragging about his conquests from the bar the previous night. Ugh. “She paused, realizing his silence had led her to continue talking to fill the quiet. (Phil found this a very useful technique in general, just letting people talk to see what they would say.)

“I’d be thrilled to show you around, let’s just grab some caffeine first, ok?”

Phil quickly glanced down then met her eyes.

“I’d be soooo grateful” he breathed. Was he overselling it? Was she going to think he was trying to hit on another sub, who was collared, at that?

But she just laughed and showed him where the mugs were kept.

“Miss C. is just going to love you, have you met her yet?”

“No, we spoke briefly by phone but I know she’s very important and I just want to be able to be as helpful to her as I can be, in any way.”

They each had their beverages now and were adding sugar and dairy.

“Look, Phillip…” the collared sub began, “Just, be careful with her ok? She’s very naturally dominant and she’s straight and you look a lot like her last sub, actually, and…”

“Who, me?” Phil interrupted. “I would never.. I mean, I couldn’t, I’m not…” He actually stammered in his ‘haste’ to make his position known. He let his hand shake and spill a tiny bit of coffee on his sleeve (where he could easily roll the cuff to cover the stain, but she clearly didn’t know that.)

“Oh gosh, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you on your first day and everything, just ignore me, ok? Everything is going to be terrific, you’re going to do great!” Now she would remember his nerves more than her warning when she thought back. Particularly since he planned to ignore her warning and walk right into the trouble she was trying to save him from.

 

Everything was going perfectly according to plan.

 

 


	10. You made me do it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a link to the off shoot fic you MADE me write!

[**The Best Days**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4018585) (466 words) by [**efficaceous**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous)  
Chapters: 1/1  
Fandom: [The Avengers (Marvel Movies)](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/The%20Avengers%20\(Marvel%20Movies\)), [The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/The%20Avengers%20\(Marvel\)%20-%20All%20Media%20Types)  
Rating: Mature  
Warnings: Underage  
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark  
Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark  
Additional Tags: Daddy Kink, daddy dom, Daddy/little - Freeform, Littles, Non-Sexual Age Play, Age Play  
Summary:

Ya'll wanted some Little Tony and Daddy Steve?

This is a total off shoot of my Service Sub Coulson/Dom Hawkeye fic The Lion and the Maiden.  
Same 'verse, same rules.  
I guess I'll update this when I can?  
Be warned- I suck at plotting.


	11. Beware what face you put on; it may become harder and harder to take off.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So my dear friend Liz gave me some good direction for this story, so I *think* I'm back on track to having a resolution in mind. We'll see.

Coulson’s plan continued, of course, to go exactly as he intended. Things were moving ahead of schedule even, which is how he had ended up here, eyes downcast but chin level, hands clasped at the small of his back, standing at attention in April’s office. Not that she was (overtly) paying him a bit of attention. She had told him to be ‘decorative’. Phil the Agent had tried to play the role as best he could without taking off any clothes, while still letting Phil the Employee seem as eager and appealing as possible. He could play these games all day, but what he wanted, **really truly wanted** , right now was…  to reorganize and scan the files that she had carelessly let fall to the floor.

April was on a conference call. She had leaned back as far as her leather chair would allow and rested her legs on her desk, crossed at the (red, stiletto, _how very trite_ ) heels. She had a headset on and was keeping her eyes on the middle distance view out her corner office window. ( _Eastward_ , Phil’s mind helpfully supplied. _Somewhere over there was the Atlantic. Eventually_.)

Despite her semblance of unconcern, Phil had caught the way April’s breathing had quickened every time she had turned her head casually towards him, how her speech became more monosyllabic the longer he stood still. “Yes” “Okay” “Soon” etc. He pitied whoever was on the other end. A little.

He decided to up the ante- he had honestly enjoyed the rush of power that came with being able to distract her from her work. _Have to keep a rein on that._ He smoothly shifted his pose from parade rest to contrapposto, letting his fingers uncurl and his pelvis tilt subtly. It was a warmer pose, more inviting, but also more daring. She hadn’t told him to move, so taking this risk was intended to provoke a response in her.

Her eyes flew to appraise him as soon as she caught the movement from the corner of her eye. One hand went to the top of her cream colored silk button down and undid the first button. The smooth material slid apart easily, revealing a scant inch of what she clearly considered desirable real estate. Her fingers trailed down further, over her breasts _(32B with a very well padded push up bra_ , he had decided). She thought they were trading something, each reveal on his part matched by a reveal on hers.

Very well. Phil took a deep breathe and let his muscles from into a variant of dancer’s pose, with his free arm curled in front of him. He was restricted a bit by his office casual clothing, but he had chosen fabrics with some give, anticipating that at some point he would be moving quite a bit.

April gasped as his left leg rose to meet his left hand. She sat up abruptly and punched the button to end her call. Phil breathed carefully, keeping his attention on the carpet 2 feet in front of him. April carefully removed her headset, careful not to muss her hair even in her rapt fascination with Phil’s surprising agility.

(Clint wouldn’t have been surprised, not in the least. Fixated, fascinated, appreciative, perhaps but not surprised.)

She stood and stalked over to where he balanced. “You… are a treasure, Phillip.” He knew this was bs. He knew this was part of her game to suck him in. It still felt good to be praised by a dom he was trying to impress, no matter the motivation behind the action.

She ran a finger under his chin, pressing up slightly, until he figured out that she wanted him to swing his head up and leg down, without breaking the pose. (Clint would have been staring now too, all those suits hid a very fit and flexible body with surprising strength at its core.)

When he had re-balanced at the height she seemed to want, based on her cessation of pressure under this chin, she swooped in to kiss him. Phil had been expecting this, had braced for it (both physically and emotionally) but the acrid taste of coffee and cigarettes still rankled him internally. He focused on accepting her lips on his, her teeth coyly trying to nibble his and finally her tongue invading his mouth, as he breathed through his nose. He was caught in a very uncomfortable spot, unwilling to fall before her as she clearly wanted, with part of his own traitorous nature wanting to get caught up in the kiss. Finally, she pulled back.

“You’re coming home with me tonight, Phillip. I’m going to have you kneel, and I’m going to bring you to my play room and then we’ll see what other little tricks you can do.”

It was meant to be a come-on. He knew she intended to be seductive, so he increased his respiration and quickly glanced up at her through his lashes. She was gazing at him in fascination. He knew exactly how to tip her over the edge.

He unclasped the fingers of his left hand and slid down until he was kneeling before her.

“Please mistress,” he let his voice tremble. “Do we have to wait until tonight?”


	12. Chaos is what killed the dinosaurs, darling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick and also lazy. every other day updates might be beyond me. More comments = more motivation ;)
> 
> I pulled the "sunny" quote from an omega verse Sherlock Fic  
> [ **Mummy, No Thank You**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/380775) (19918 words) by [**Unloyal_Olio**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio)  
>  Chapters: 9/9  
> Fandom: [Sherlock (TV)](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sherlock%20\(TV\)), [Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sherlock%20Holmes%20*a*%20Related%20Fandoms)  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings  
> Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson  
> Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mummy (Sherlock), Mrs. Hudson, Harry Watson  
> Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Case Fic, Knotting, Rimming, Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Comedy, Arranged Marriage, Omegaverse  
> Summary:
> 
> Mummy Holmes arranges a marriage for Sherlock. Since Sherlock refuses to meet anyone properly, she must go to one of the breeding camps where older omegas are kept. She finds John Watson. Thus, a p0rny, case-ficky, dark comedy.

The ride to April’s  pied-à-terre was brief; Phil rode beside her in the gauche yellow sportscar, (“What’s the point, to look _sunny_?”) verbally admiring the buttery soft leather seats, all in a wondering voice that made it sound like he was halfway to subspace already. Phil had worked very hard on that tone of voice, and found it worked wonders on doms (whose egos already told them that their mere presence was enough to satisfy a sub. If only.)

 

As they parked in the rotunda, April turned and took him in. He was sitting so politely, hands clasped in his lap, seat belt precisely fashioned across a chest she could now see was estimable. His eyes met hers, briefly, and she swore she could see his pupils dilate from that alone.

 

(It was a trick Natasha had taught him: first look down at the darkest thing you can find for a few seconds then glance up at a light source behind the person you’re trying to impress. Went right into the subconscious of those who didn’t notice it outright. _Faking biofeedback should be a required course for all intelligence agents_ , he decided.)

 

He could see that her respiration had sped up, she was getting turned on by the power she thought she had over him. If the whole seduction stayed this easy, with his arsenal of strategies capable of satisfying her dominant needs, the rest of the mission would be smooth sailing.

 

When had Phil Coulson ever been so lucky?

 

April slid one long nailed finger across the belt’s nylon, to where it met his throat, then lightly stroked him there. “Are you ready to show me how obedient you can be, Phil?”  She clearly thought her vocal range was “purring” but Phil would have classified it as laughably closer to a stage whisper. He kept his amusement off his face.

 

“Yes... Mistress?” The slight uplift in intonation at the end of the title combined with an exhalation to make him sound breathless with arousal and totally in her thrall. But the ride had given him a chance to plan, to think, to regain control over himself that the office encounter had left him in sore need of.

 

“Excellent.” She squeezed his throat, quickly and remarkably strongly for a just a second then released him and leaned over him to unlock the passenger side door from the inside.

“Get out, we have things to do. “

 

Phil deliberately moved at 90% of the appropriate speed of movement- this time not a trick from Natasha but one of his own devising. It lent authenticity to his air of being dazed and dazzled.

 

“Should I bring my … stuff?” It **really** irritated him to have to end every sentence as a question with those aggravating pauses for uncertainty. Phil knew the answer, she wanted him to bring his own kneeling cushion so she could see him on it in her own space, and then ruin it in some way, either rip it up carelessly or stain it permanently. He knew she was hoping to use his own blood. He was prepared to follow through on that if the need arose. That was not in the mission plan, he was totally off book- at least off the book of plans he had shared with Clint.

 

He hadn’t even had a chance to let Clint know he was with April. Usually Phil checked in via coded disposable email at the end of every workday, sending a brief “everything's ok and look under the cactus” when he had a micro usb for Clint to pick up (or sometimes a small piece of a candy. He loved the look of total pleasure on Clint’s face when something sweet was melting in his mouth. )

 

No matter, they were both professionals and Phil knew how to do his job. A pint of so of blood missing had never hurt him before. What Clint didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

* * *

 

What Clint _did_ know was that Phil hadn’t sent the afternoon report, and someone had seen him getting into April’s garish car. And that April had told her secretary that Mr. Collins might not be in for a few days. With a smirk. Which was just **not** on.

 

 


	13. Illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expect delays ahead.  
> I couldn't pick one line from the song for this chapter's title, so see the notes for the entirety that spoke to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's hard to tell how mixed up you feel  
> Hoping what you need is behind every door  
> Each time you get hurt, I don't want you to change  
> Because everyone has hopes, you're human after all
> 
> The feeling sometimes wishing you were someone else  
> Feeling as though you never belong  
> This feeling is not sadness, this feeling is not joy  
> I truly understand, please don't cry now
> 
> Please don't go, I want you to stay  
> I'm begging you, please, please don't leave here  
> I don't want you to hate for all the hurt that you feel  
> The world is just illusion trying to change you
> 
> Being like you are, well, this is something else  
> Who would comprehend? But some that do lay claim  
> Divine purpose blesses them, that's not what I believe  
> And it doesn't matter anyway
> 
> A part of your soul ties you to the next world  
> Or maybe to the last but I'm still not sure  
> But what I do know is to us the world is different  
> As we are to the world, I guess you would know that
> 
> Please don't go, I want you to stay  
> I'm begging you, please, please don't leave here  
> I don't want you to hate for all the hurt that you feel  
> The world is just illusion trying to change you
> 
> Please don't go, I want you to stay  
> I'm begging you, please, oh please don't leave here  
> I don't want you to change for all the hurt that you feel  
> This world is just illusion always trying to change you
> 
> Please don't go, I want you to stay  
> I'm begging you, please, please don't leave here  
> I don't want you to hate for all the hurt that you feel  
> This world is just illusion, trying to change you
> 
> Please don't go, I want you to stay  
> I'm begging you, please, oh please don't leave here  
> I don't want you to change for all the hurt that you feel  
> This world is just illusion always trying to change you  
> -VNV Nation Illusion

 

Clint was kind of freaking out. He had a list of reasons. Phil loved lists. He loved Phil. So he made lists. Granted, Phil never saw any of Clint’s lists, but Clint knew he would have appreciated them.

Reasons for freaking out:

  1. Phil left the office early.

  2. Phil _left_ the office **_early_**.




 

He had walked past Phil’s desk during his normal afternoon rounds, just to make himself feel better after weeks of boredom and loneliness in this cubicle jungle. Phil wasn’t there, which wasn’t too unusual. Phil had quickly shown himself to be invaluable to Altrigeneology, so he was often in meetings or visiting other departments to help supervisors with various issues on site.

 

Something about his desk was wrong this afternoon. Wee flowering cactus? Check. Geek bait toys? Check. Paperwork all neatly aligned and pens all point down? Check and check. When Clint realized what was missing, his heart skipped a beat.

 

Phil’s kneeling pillow was missing. The satiny cushion with legit pinstripes usually peeked out a corner. ( _Strategically he knew it was just window dressing but everytime he saw it all his mind offered were beautifully lit visions of Phil kneeling sweetly on this cushion hands clasped obediently behind his back, eyes closed in satisfaction as he warmed and suckled Clint’s soft cock, tie slightly loosened, throat button undone, looking debauched and blissed out.)_

 

3\. Phil’s kneeling pillow was missing.

 

And April had left early as well.

 

That left only one conclusion, the one that was really really making his hackles rise:

Phil was kneeling for April.

 

Again, logically, Clint knew this was probably part of the plan. Granted, Phil had specifically said he wasn’t going to meet her anyplace off site or secluded. But Phil was a big boy and could handle himself in the field. Obviously. But Phil had never been the bait in this kind of operation, that Clint knew of. And being bait was an entirely different type of fight. He felt like a heel even thinking it, but what if Phil’s submissive side bit him in the ass?

 

_How can I be backup if I don’t know where he is?_ Clint wondered miserably. _What if he does need me and I’m here with my thumb up my ass (or something like that)?_

 

That decided him. He’d find April’s home address and go scope it out. Just to be on the safe side. Time to track the gps signal he had planted on April’s gaudy sportscar on his first morning.

 

* * *

 

  
Phil was used to having most professional things in his life under his control. 

Right now Phil was not under control. 

This was a problem.


	14. Crossing the Streams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had the day off, and cliff hangers suck.

Right now, Phil was not under control.

 

He had clearly started in control, slipping an audio recording device under the corner of the rug where April had him kneeling while she “changed into something more suitable”.

_Ick._

By the time she returned, he had a concrete plan on how to act like he was completely under her spell.

 

The problem was, when she got back, she had a large black bag with her. Phil couldn’t see what was in the bag, and his guesses began to get wildly speculative:

_Blindfold. Crop. Flogger. Pinwheel. Soft cuffs. Rough cuffs. Butt plugs. Head restraints. Gimp suit. Funnel. Packing tape. Flechettes. Candles. Matches. Cock ring. Cock cage. Strap on. Vibrating bullets. Real bullets. Guns. Medications. Hypnotic drugs. Addictive drugs. Infectious drugs. Deadly infectious drugs._

 

So, not good.

 

April herself was the last thing he noticed. She had removed her business clothes and replaced them with the cliched red silk and lace teddy with built in bustier paired with thigh highs and matching garter belts. It was an outfit from a 70’s romance porn and it really didn’t suit her.

But she clearly thought it did, as she gave a little twirl, letting the bag-of-alarm swing out as she spun. “Oh, Phillip, we’re going to have so much fun today!” she crooned.

 

“I have so many ideas, you can’t imagine what seeing you every day in your hot little sweater vests has done to me. I just knew the whole time that you needed me to help you really get in touch with your submissive pain-slut whoreish ways.”

 

More alarm bells. _Pain-slut? Whore_?

Phil knew better than to respond in haste; he just bowed his head further and murmured an acquiescent noise.

 

“Let’s start by seeing what you have to offer.” April pulled and pushed him until he stood in the center of the room, arms out and legs slightly spread. “So exposed for me, so obedient…”

 

She probably wasn’t even talking to him anymore so Phil focused on the-bag-of-alarm again, trying to gauge how much of each item it could hold, or which combinations. Probably no more than one gimp suit, so if he somehow ripped it she’d not have a spare. Innumerable flechettes however.

 

She turned back to the bag and pulled out a shiny pair of surgical scissors. Damn, he’d liked these boxers; they were a superhero print. The nudity didn’t concern him though. He worked out and knew he looked good for his age. Not as good as some younger agents who has the shoulders of a young Atlas, but still.

 

Coulson knew that ‘Phil Collins’ wouldn’t be so unperturbed by the prospect of having his clothing cut off and standing nude before the dom, so he let his breathing increase and his lips part slightly.

 

April drew it out, but there really wasn’t much danger involved with surgical scissors. Phil had to over sell the fear, dramatically drawing in his breathe the moment she got near any vital or soft bits. April didn’t even seem to notice the theatrical nature of his responses, and her dilated pupils told him she was very interested in seeing him squirm even more.

 

Unfortunately, Phil made the mistake of meeting her eyes for a moment while trying to assess her level of interest.

 

“No, no, no, we can’t have that. Disrespectful, lazy, slut!” April whirled and strode to the bag-of-alarm and started pulling items out in a rush, tossing them across the table until she found what she was looking for. _Shit_. It was a full leather/neoprene face mask with only two small air holes at the nostrils. The ears were padded, clearly to prevent the wearer from hearing anything, there were no semblance of eye openings. And a small padlock hung open on the fastenings on the back. If she… no, **when** she put this on him, he’d have very few clues to go on. He’d be very much at her mercy, exactly as she desired.

 

Phil had fantasized every now and then about being fully restrained by a loving dom, having to rely on him for all his needs and enjoying the trust that came from giving over all his senses and escapes. But like this? This wasn’t arousing or even exciting, instead it was now that he admitted to himself that he was feeling a frisson of fear. If he let her put this thing on him, he’d have to accept whatever she did to him, until she decided to take it off. And he wouldn't know what she was about to do.

 

There were two viable options. 1. Break cover and flee or 2. Beg. He still wanted this op to be a success, so he chose option 2.

He let tears well up in his eyes and a moan escape his lips as he “struggled” to form words.

 

“I’m so, so sorry mistress, please, I’m scared, please don’t…” and so on. He rambled on, hands clasped at his heart, staring at the carpet at her feet, promising obedience, adulation, submission, adoration.

 

Now it seemed she could sense the insincerity in his extremis of emotion. She barely hesitated before raising the mask to his temple and beginning to roll it down over his face, even as he produced a remarkably realistic snivel. She just methodically got the material in place even after he could no longer form words and was reduced to begging in mumbles through the thick material. He felt, rather than heard, the buckles being tightened and the padlock click shut.

 

His own adrenaline had begun to spike to for real now. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see and he couldn’t talk.  Finally he stood there, dumbly, head hanging. This was what she wanted, he reminded himself, to see him broken. He could do this. He had withstood torture before, bad doms and in work situations as well. He was Phil Mother Fucking Coulson and new hires feared him, Nick Fury feared him (on a good day), and he could get through one session of sensory deprivation with this woman.

 

He even believed most of it, until the first sharp heat hit his shoulder. He couldn’t help the instinctive flinch but he couldn’t seem to get away from the burning. It felt like she had extinguished a match head on his skin, but he hoped it was only a drop of candle wax.

  
_Shit_. If this was where she was starting, he was _not_ going to be ok.


	15. I sense a disturbance in the force…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apperantly I am all about the cliff hangers these days. Sorry, this is what the muse is giving me. (Not sorry).

Clint had tracked April’s car easily, using his StarkPad and a simple app Natasha had actually helped create. He pulled up at the curb in front of the McMansion in a standard issue rented black SUV. (The registration was for a man who _technically_ didn’t exist.) Lights were on in the foyer and in a few upstairs rooms. Some of the rooms clearly had heavy curtains that could be blocking anything. In the setting sun, Clint hopped out to scope out the security system. It was laughably easy to override it, and so he let himself in after a quick glance to confirm no nosey neighbors were watching but the foliage obstructed all the other houses sightlines. He patted his pockets and confirmed that both lethal and non lethal weaponry was in place, should it be needed.

 

Once inside the heavy wooden door, Clint moved quickly but silently to the foot of the stairs, back pressed to the wall. He waited, listening intently. He hoped he wouldn’t hear things: a well armed housekeeper, Phil, a cranky yappy dog, Phil making happy noises, Phil making _unhappy_ noises.

 

After a few moments of continued quiet, Clint relaxed a bit. Too soon, actually. He heard an upstairs door fly open then slam shut, and high heeled footsteps practically run down the hall above him. Before he could even come up with a plan, the heeled steps returned at the same pace, now accompanied by a voice, clearly on a cell phone.

 

“....No, I don’t know if he had any prior health conditions! ...Jesus, it was just some harmless fun, are you people on your way yet? … Well I don’t know what to do with him… Yes, **YES** , I said Yes, he’s still breathing...”

 

Clint stopped processing clearly at that point and his instincts took over. Without a conscious decision, he found himself having leapt up the stairs and pressing April up against the wall, his not unimpressive forearm tightly across her throat as she strained on her tiptoes to hold herself up enough to keep breathing.

 

“Where is he?” he growled.

 

Her mouth was about to say “Who?” so Clint brought his other hand up to her hair and shook her like a doll.

 

“Don’t say who. **Phil**. Where is Phil? What did you do to him?”

 

Once again, he didn’t let her get a word out- her eyes flicked left to the first door which stood slightly ajar. Clint gave her another good shake and dropped her as he whirled and ran to the open door. April just crumpled to the floor and whimpered, face in her hands.

 

As he rushed through the door, Clint’s heart dropped. All he could see was a naked man, wearing a full hood that had been half pulled off, and nothing else. His body bore the marks of both flame and some kind of razors, there were numerous blood runnels scattered over the body. Over _Phil’s_ body.

 

 


	16. OSHA hates SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust me, all this helpless Phil shit won't continue for long.  
> Tiny update to get our boys on steadier ground.

 

Clint recalled that April had said that Phil was still breathing so he tried to steady himself as he knelt and carefully felt for a pulse in Phil’s neck. He slid the sub’s head into his lap as cautiously as possible, feeling a thousand times better at being able to protect him at last.

 

Slow and steady, there it was. Having assured himself that Phil not dead _(Phil. Dead. NOT going there_.) Clint began to systematically assess the wounds he could see. He knew the ambulance was on its way, so all he had to do was make sure nothing got worse until the medics arrived. Every SHIELD employee had basic emt training; it just made sense to have assets and handlers able to doctor the simple stuff on site without involving any outside groups who might be touchy about “workplace safety” or “OSHA requirements”.

 

He started by gently lifting Phil’s head and removing the hood fully. He smoothed back the thinning hair, in way he would never have dared had the sub been aware. Phil didn’t invite personal contact; he had an almost innate ability to avoid touching anyone casually so Clint savored the moment just a little, then moved on to his neck. He examined each visible burn. None of them were serious, he could even peel away some of the excess wax that was holding the heat in a few spots to give Phil’s skim some relief. The cuts, while not deep, were far more numerous and Clint simply forced himself to stop counting. The bleeding had all but stopped, which was a good sign.

 

April hadn’t show this much sadism in her previous victimology, but Clint was damn sure she would never get another chance to practice.

 

Abruptly, Phil shifted in his lap, and made a small whimper. The noise broke Clint’s damn heart and he felt his throat begin to close up with emotional pain. Phil’s eyes, those steady blue eyes, scrunched and then half opened, gazing up at Clint. A smile began to spread over his face as he nearly whispered;

  
“I knew you’d come.”


	17. Nonplussed has two meanings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, lovelies.  
> I found this chapter rather funny, hope you do too!

Clint was helpless to do anything except smile back, matching Phil’s grin watt for watt.

 

“You had me worried there, sir. “

“Pshh. “ Phil waved a hand nonchalantly, except at about half the appropriate speed. “Just held my bref… my **breaTH** until I passed out. Got bored with herrrr technique.” Then he turned his head and coughed a few times, dryly.

 

Unfortunately his head was still in Clint’s lap, so when he turned his head, he could not have missed growing evidence that Clint was rather more ‘ _excited_ ’ about his recovery than was quite proper.

 

Awkwardly, Clint gripped Phil’s shoulders and positioned him upright. “You should uh, just take some deep breathes, get all your oxygen levels back up.” He consciously stopped his hand from rubbing circles on the sub’s shoulder. ( _Wrong time. Keep it together, Barton. Business. Work. Not your sub to take care of. Not yours._ )

 

Phil met his eye and the grin returned as he took a few careful, deep breaths.

 

“I actually wasn’t expecting you quite so soon. I thought it would take at least 2 hours before you’d show up. Or was I out that long?”

 

“Ah… no. I’m just… really proficient at watching over you- Watching out for you! I mean, doing my job, yeah, keeping an eye on things and you know, also on your whereabouts, as they pertain to the mission, of course…” Clint trailed off, hoping his mistaken words would just be glossed over, that Phil was somehow magically still groggy or in the edge of subspace, or really in any way NOT attentive to the fact that he had just admitted to practically stalking and claiming the sub.

 

“Relax, Barton, it’s your job to watch over me on this particular mission.” Phil’s fingers went to a patch of dried wax in his chest hair, rubbing it loose with a practiced motion. “You don’t happen to have any wet wipes or an extra pair of shorts on hand, do you? I _can_ face the paramedics like this but I’d really prefer to get some of this blood cleaned up and scram or they might want to keep me for observation. Blood loss and such, you know. “

 

“Shorts. Wipes. Uh, maybe? Lemme just…” Clint dug in his pockets quickly. He presented his findings to Phil. In his cupped hands were an old flint arrow head (not lucky per se, just one he found locally), a battered business card for a local pizza place that delivered, two rubber bands, a stick of juicy fruit gum, lock-pick set, knockout patch, and lo and behold one much battered lonely wet wipe with a picture of a lobster print on it.

 

“You are a goddamn miracle worker, Barton.” Phil took the packet and twisted his body, beginning to systematically clean his chest, torso, arms and legs. The blood scrubbed off easily, but it revealed a truly remarkable number of fine cuts, far more than Clint had first estimated. He rarely underestimated on such topics, but the small length of the cuts made many of them seem like one when really there were two or even three evenly spaced.

 

“Sir, given that the paramedics are already en route, do you think, maybe you might let them, you know, check you out?” Clint hoped, but knew better.

 

“Nope, sorry Barton.” Phil hopped up and tossed the now barely damp wipe to Clint. “Do my back, please?”

 

It was the ’please’ that moved Clint, before he even knew it, he was gingerly scrubbing the dried blood trails from Phil’s back and down to his waist and then… he paused.

 

“You have some blood… further down.”

 

“Yes, Barton, I know, and I really am a bit sore so if you could just finish and we can get going?” Phil wasn’t thinking about the fact that he had just asked Clint to rub and caress - with a by-this-time-crusty wipe- his ass. He was a bit high on endorphins and wanted some clothes. A shower. Help picking off the remaining wax from his leg hair, it pulled every time he moved.

 

Clint still hesitated for a moment, his mouth working as he tried to formulate a response that didn’t say: “I would love to fondle your ass at length and with my mouth for as long as you let me.” and finally gave up, steeling himself and brusquely rubbing the sanguine runnels.

 

“Do you have an exit plan?” Clint finally inquired.

  
“Sort of. It depends on how much you did to Miss Cherwinski, and how much traffic there is downtown at this time of day.” Phil sounded nonplussed. Phil was not nonplussed. Or perhaps he was nonplussed in the other sense of the word? _Perhaps I have brain damage from oxygen deprivation_ , he wondered privately. Clint Barton was rubbing his ass in increasingly slower circles. It felt _fantastic_.


	18. Exit Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have not forgotten or abandoned this, my lovelies.  
> Please enjoy; please comment.

The exit plan was remarkably simple. Phil instructed Clint to swipe a fluffy white robe from the en suite, and draped a smaller towel over the back of his neck, effectively covering him and his wounds from chin to ankles.

April hadn’t moved from her overdramatic puddle on the floor, so Clint just slapped the knockout patch on the nape of *her* neck and waited for the drugs to kick in.  She never met his eyes or tried to speak to him. Maybe he had pressed a tiny bit too hard with his forearm? _Was everyone in this house a little addled at this point?_

 

Phil calmly descended the stairs on his own power; Clint carried April in a fireman’s carry to the SUV, thanking whatever deity looked out for him that the sun had finally set and no external lights illuminated the entrance.

 

Once April was safely ensconced in the trunk _(handcuffs, ankle cuffs, breathable mesh hood_ ) and Coulson in the passenger seat, head resting on the window, Clint sat in the driver’s seat, keys in hand.

 

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider letting the paramedics look at you sir?” Clint was actually concerned. Phil never failed to display proper posture, even sitting at home on his couch watching Dog Cops.

 

“No.” The robed man murmured.  “No paras. Just need to … close my eyes for a bit….”

 

 _Shit. Subdrop._ Clint had known the adrenaline rush that had kept Phil functional this long wouldn’t last forever, but he really didn’t want what had to happen next to ruin … _whatever_ it was that they had.

 

“Coulson!” Clint barked ( _unhappily_ ). “Report!”

 

Phil stirred and peered sideways at him, eyes blinking slowly, wide and confused.

 

“Mmm fine sir. Just sleepy. “ The fact that Phil had just called Clint “sir” was a creepy mix of dream-come-true and nightmare. Clearly Phil was still dropping, and orders weren’t going to be enough to bring him up. Clint would have to use Protocol 28b.

 

 


	19. Protocol 28b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You all were so curious, so here we go.  
> (P.S. my first initial is B and my birthdate was the 28th, hence 28b.)

“For emergency medicine specifically, the law acknowledges that mechanistically imposing the duty of informed consent may become detrimental to the patient’s health and potentially to the patient’s life. Therefore, the largest number of recognized exceptions to the doctrine of informed consent comes from the challenges posed in emergency medical circumstances. The general rule is that, in certain emergency medical situations, patient consent is presumed to exist for medical treatment that addresses the emergency.” -Turner and White "Emergency Medicine"

* * *

 

  
  


28a was easy. Everyone knew 28a. "If a superior agent is in topdrop, the next ranking submissive may temporarily act as appropriate to combat symptoms, provided the party has received verbal consent." Usually it just meant a sub could (non sexually) service a dom in drop, if they both consented verbally or had prior written consent forms on file. Because drop was so dangerous if left untreated, and happened so rarely to doms, most subs were not unwilling to step up if the situation arose.

 

Likewise, when a Dominant team leader had a submissive agent in subdrop, the dominant was authorized (with verbal or prior written consent) to soothe the sub. (Protocol 27 a-d, actually.)

 

But 28b had basically been written for (and by, although Clint didn’t know it) Phillip J. Coulson. He knew it was foolish to not have a plan in place for every eventuality, no matter how distasteful he found the idea of a random subordinate domming him in the field. Phil wrote Protocol 28b nine months before Clint was even recruited. _(One wonders if he would have found the idea quite so unpleasant had he already been acquainted with a certain archer?)_

 

SHIELD needed a plan in place for when a submissive supervisor dropped during a mission. Protocol 28b stated, simply, that every submissive agent have a written or recorded drop-plan on file. Because each sub had such different needs, each plan was unique to the individual. Dom’s could be soothed, historically, by simple physical contact and control. Subs had different needs, individual needs. 28b was to be used on a need to know only basis. Having the plan on file indicated consent.

 

Clint knew his next step was to call the 1-800 number all agents memorized. He would be directed to a audio file that would tell him what Phil needed him to do. Barking orders certainly hadn’t gotten him anywhere. A quick glance told him that Phil’s breathing was becoming shallow, and his eyes had drifted shut again.

 

Fine. **FINE**. 1-800-SUB-DROP it was. Phil was going to hate him after this. He was going to hate himself after this, after learning Phil’s secrets in this … tacky, business-first, impersonal way instead of learning them from Phil’s own mouth and in his own voice.

  
Clint dialed the number.


	20. 1-800-SUB-DROP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is already started so I may finish that today too.  
> Comments, suggestions, and such welcome!

“Hello, You’ve reached the national council of ontological explorers, how may I direct your call?” The shockingly perky voice that answered Clint’s call was a real person, he realized with dismay. Could this be MORE awkward?

 

“It’s agent Barton, ID number B 0385301. Protocol 28B.”

 

“Yes sir, thank you, your identity has been confirmed, voice prints match. Which sub is in distress?” The voice on the other end of the line had thankfully switched into ‘real work’/crisis mode' smoothly. Time was of the essence right now.

 

“Phil Coulson, um,  Agent Coulson.” Clint started to sweat when he realized he didn’t know Coulson’s ID#. Or birthday. Or… lots of real person things. And He desperately wanted to know those things about Phil, he realized. But after this, would Phil even want him around anymore? What if he fucked it up? What if Phil needed something he couldn’t give? Some kind of hard limit abuse shit?

 

“Is Agent Coulson available to take the line?” The business like tone of the woman on the phone brought Clint back to reality.

 

“He’s not really … with it right now. “ Clint had been watching Phil the whole time, and he was taking short gasping breaths, eyes fully shut but rolling under the lids.

 

“That’s fine. Put the phone near his face for ten seconds so I can get a read on his vitals, please.”

 

“You can do that?” Clint hadn’t given much thought to the issue, but he saw that this protocol could be very dangerous in the wrong hands.

 

“Yes sir. Sooner than later, if you would?”

 

Clint complied. He held the phone in front of Phil’s face for the requisite time and then put it to his own ear again.

 

“Did you get it?” What if she hadn’t? _This was a shitty phone and reception here wasn’t the best and..._

 

“All set sir. After you reenter your ID on the keypad you’ll reach a recording of Agent Coulson’s drop plan. Press 1 to rewind, 2 to pause or play, and 3 to fast forward. Please remember that this file is confidential and conveys full consent for all activities listed. Any activity that is not listed, mentioned or described can be considered assault and SHIELD will prosecute said assault to the fullest extent of the law. Good luck.”

The warning rolled off the woman’s tongue in a rush, clearly it was a well rehearsed speech.

 

Clint was left with the line open, as he paused, considering. Then he punched in his ID again.

 

“Well shit. If you’re listening to this, I’m in trouble.” Clint blinked owlishly and tapped the **2** button. It was definitely Phil’s voice, but looser somehow. Not drunk, he wasn’t slurring, and the emotional timbre was right so he wasn’t high either.

 

 **1**   “Well shit. If you’re listening to this, I’m in trouble. I’m going to need you to do a few things to help me feel safe and useful again. Usually this hits when I feel like I failed, or when I push my limits trying to please someone. “

 

 **2**   Phil wasn’t drunk or high on the recording, Clint realized, he was in subspace. Not deep, surely, since he was still able to talk clearly (and curse). But open, honest, heartbreakingly so.

Clint wondered how many times this file had been accessed, either during an op, or through SHIELD’s personal service.

 

 **1**  “... this hits when I feel like I failed, or when I push my limits trying to please someone. First of all, I need to be held.  (long pause) Cuddled, I guess, would be better.  I like my back scritched... like softly scratched, I mean. Not the furry thing.  (another pause) And some praise. I uh, I need to hear that I helped someone um, that I was good enough. (long pause) That should be enough. I don’t need much,”

 

Dead air filled Clint’s ear.  That was it? Just simple aftercare shit that every sub deserved and needed on a regular basis? Who had Phil been with that he felt his very minimal requests were an imposition? _Fuck fuck fuck,_ Clint was getting mad now, thinking of Phil in drop other times, just for want of simple loving attention. He viciously clamped down on the thought.  _Later_. Now was for Phil.

 

#1. #2. He replayed the entire recording, short though it was, and then disconnected.

  
_Time to go to work_. This wasn’t about his feelings for Phil, or for whoever had fucked him over in the past. _I can do this. I can do this._


	21. A man with a plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please don't be mad but this is also a cliff hanger. I wanted to get *something* out for you guys but I'm not 100% on how the scene continues. So- I know as a reader I'd rather have progress than nothing.

Clint had a plan. He hadn’t studied under the great Phil Coulson for a few years without learning a few tricks along the way.

 

He started by quickly but carefully driving the car to a scenic lookout about 5 minutes away. He had hiked there a few days previously- great views. They needed some seclusion, so if ( _when_ ) Phil came around he wouldn’t feel too vulnerable.

 

Once the vehicle was parked, ( _in the lines, middle row. End row said murder. Front row said drug sales. Mid row was usually safe._ )  Clint unbelted and hopped out to check on April; she was still secure and and unconscious in the trunk. The knockout patch gave him about 4 more hours before she could reasonably protest her situation, 6 until she could do anything about it.

 

Moving to the back seat, he laid the the second row seats back as far as they would go, into a faux futon layout and gently moved Phil, bridal style, to the back seat, sliding in behind the unresponsive man and tucking him gently into the lines of his own body. Phil had started shivering already during the short drive here. Clint desperately wished he had more than an emergency solar blanket on hand- that would be far too crinkly to be comforting right now. The robe was gaping open in various revealing ways and Clint deliberately averted his eyes as he snugged the material closely around Phil’s slack limbs.

 

The change in position hadn’t even wakened him. Clint knew this was a bad sign. He allotted himself 20 minutes, setting the alarm on his phone on vibrate in his pocket. If Phil wasn’t semi lucid by then, he’d drive directly to the nearest emergency room. _And then possibly off a cliff (alone, obviously)._

 

Focus. Phil needed him. ( _Well, not you exactly,_ his mind helpfully supplied. _Someone_.) Clint grimaced, but didn’t let the tension flow into the arms he had carefully wrapped around Phil.

 

His arms could comfort as well as kill. He didn’t often get the chance to use his strength for this type of thing. But he could. He always wanted to- to swing a small child, to protect those who were important to him. Now he had a chance. _Sort of_. Clint knew that Phil would never have asked him to do these things, would never have shared this part of himself with Clint, had it not been a matter of life or death. Fuck or die was a fun trope in porn, but this was real life, and Clint wanted Phil in his arms by choice, enthusiastically cooperating instead of passively lying unawares.

 

With a sigh, Clint began by giving into his own longing and softly brushing his fingers across Phil’s forehead, tucking the short strands of greying hair behind his ear then tracing his fingertips down Phil’s jawline. As his fingers reached the point of Phil’s chin, he couldn’t resist dabbling one up to finally feel the swell of his lower lip. Clint had spent eons wondering if Phil’s lips were as soft as he imagined. His fingers said they were- not smooth like a woman’s, but plush nonetheless.

  
Clint repeated the gesture: forehead to ear to jaw to lip. He checked Phil’s respiration. No change. Shallow breaths, too fast. His forehead was clammy too, but cold to his touch. 


	22. Viva la Thylacine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress, not perfection.
> 
> Don't forget the tags- The author regrets everything and has no idea what's going on.

“Viva la thylacine…” Phil mumbled towards Clint. Clint pondered exactly how an extinct marsupial related to their situation briefly, then dismissed the topic.

“Shhh…” Remembering Phil’s painfully minimal directives, Clint began to murmur, pressing his lips to the sub’s temple, speaking softly:

"You did, you did so good Phil. You were so brave and so strong and so damn beautiful that, that, I dunno, you just do _everything_ right. Every day, every day, I look at you and think, how could anyone ever not see you? You hide in plain sight and I _hate_ that no one sees you like you deserve but I also hate myself, because I couldn’t stand watching someone else take care of you the way, the way you should be. I was so jealous and paranoid when Nat came in because I thought I wouldn’t get to sneak into your office for paperwork help anymore, and I can’t stand that I wasn’t as caring to Nat as I could have been, and, and, you knew, and you made sure I didn’t feel left out and..."

Clint paused and took a deep breath. He knew he would be skirting dangerously close to the line of consent if he kissed Phil right now. No matter how much he needed to kiss him, Clint would wait forever, if that’s how long it took for Phil to be a conscious and enthusiastic participant in their first kiss. He steadied himself, and ran a calloused hand over Phil’s profile again, then cupped the base of his skull. He pulled Phil into his arms, turning him from spooning to an embrace, one arm wrapped around Phil’s waist, the other still on his head as they lay awkwardly across the backseat of the SUV.

 

“Phil, you have to come back. You didn’t do anything wrong, and no one here is mad at you.”

At the words ‘ _mad at you_ ’ Phil whimpered slightly and Clint honest-to-god cringed at the sound. _Fuck. I am fucking this up._

“No, not mad, never mad, not at you, Phil. I’m mad at myself, that I didn’t notice you were gone soon enough to do my job, to protect you, to help you. You’re the best thing in my life and I let you get hurt. I’m a terrible dom, and I don’t know how to fix it. But you, you, did nothing, you hear me? **NOTHING** wrong. You’re perfect and I need you. I need your help.”

 

Agent Barton never cried. Hawkeye never shed a tear. Clint hadn’t cried in front of another person in decades. But now, the world had gone a bit fuzzy and watery, and his nose was running.

“Come back Phil, I need you, sweetheart, please, please come back, help me, please….:

 

Maybe it was the nickname, maybe it was the impassioned and heartfelt plea.

 

Phil sighed and at some point the shivering had stopped. His nose crinkled and he unconsciously burrowed his face into Clint’s neck.

  
At the shift, Clint’s tears over spilled his eyes. He shifted into a modified bear hug, his arms completely wrapped around Phil. He knew they weren’t in the clear yet, but it was working, _It was working!_


	23. Being born and dying in the same breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the apologies for being inconsistent. Next chapter should be up sometime today.

Heartened by Phil’s movement, Clint decided to continue his stream of consciousness speaking, since it had seemed to be effective. He loosened his hold on the sub slightly, conscious of giving him enough room to breath and not feel punished or trapped, but began lightly running his nails across Phil’s back. _Scritching? I’m going to have to use that one, I bet it feels fantastic for someone who isn’t into pain._

 

In a low voice thick with emotion, he spoke:

“Ok babe, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to slowly and happily wake up, all the way. You’re doing so well and I just need a little more from you. I need your help, Phil. I always need your help. Heck, I couldn’t even get away from Trick without you. You always joke that you kidnapped me, but really I was just hanging around waiting to be saved. You saved me, ya know? So if you could just come back to me, love, then we can get this show on the road, and you can go back to saving my ass on a regular basis. I promise I’ll do better in the future though, I won’t let anything like this happen to you again. I’ll protect you, no matter what. I’m so so sorry that I let this happen to you.”

 

Clint wasn’t just talking about the cuts and the blood and the wax still caught in a few places. It was the dropping. Subs only dropped like this if they weren’t having their needs met on any kind of regular basis. For Phil to drop so fast and so dangerously spoke of the risks he had been taking with his isolation.

 

“Jeez Coulson, I can’t believe you don’t have subspace sessions scheduled on your master calendar on a rotating basis.”

 

“I don’t like the service doms.” A small but still dry voice spoke from the vicinity of Clint’s collarbone.

 

The quip had slid out of Clint’s mouth without his brain being involved. That happened annoyingly frequently around Coulson.  The response however? _Fantastic_.

  
  


“Uh, ok, well, I can, I mean, we can, Nat! Nat can help you find someone better. On a consistent schedule. That works for you. Because this?” Clint huffed a little. “This doesn’t work for anyone. Especially not me.”

 

Phil stiffened noticeably in his arms. And not in the good way.

“I apologize, Agent. I appreciate you following the instructions I left, and I’m sorry if you felt obligated because of our…”

 

 


	24. Shut up!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feast or famine, folks.
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr. Nowherenj. It's mostly fandom and porn and some sj.  
> Also pt. 2, there will be porn. I promise. Eventually. If our boys can ever get their shit together. Maybe Nat will lock them in a closet.
> 
> Also pt.3 The Best Days (stony daddy dom fic) has an update.

“Shut up!” Clint grabbed Phil’s shoulders ( _gently, always gently_ ). He pulled Phil away from him so they could make eye contact.

 

Phil, perhaps because of his ‘space, had stopped talking as soon as Clint cried out.

 

“This?” Clint’s blue-grey eyes met Phil’s clear blues. “This is not an obligation or an issue. Helping a sub in need is almost never an issue- the only time I have problems is they’re into heavy pain or humiliation. And even then I can usually get through it. Giving you a few cuddles and saying completely true things about how great you are? Not a problem. The very opposite of a problem. The problem is you being in this state at all when I. Should. Have. Been. There.  To protect you.”

 

“Completely true things?” Phil was meeting his gaze now, in most, if not all, command of himself.

 

“I should have been there,” Clint repeated. “I failed you. You needed me and I wasn’t there. Don’t you get it? I’m a fuck up, I’ve always been a fuck up. This is just the final proof.”

 

Clint wasn’t looking at Phil anymore. His eyes had dropped to some middle distance in the Phil’s exposed chest hair where the robe had gapped.

 

“You said I was perfect. You were comforting a sub in drop, I realize. But then,” Phil spoke slowly, carefully. “Then you said it was all completely true.”

 

“Are you kidding? I’m havin’ a nervous breakdown here about not protecting you and you want to focus on the nice shit I say about you? Of course you’re perfect, Phil! I’m the fuckup in this stiuation….”

 

“Now you shut up.” Phil’s voice was firm but not unkind.

“I don’t know what you think you did wrong exactly, aside from give me enough rope to hang myself on, but I feel like we’re not communicating well here. And I know I need some water. Food. Real clothes. Can we,” He glanced down at their still entwined bodies,” have the rest of this conversation in the near future? I think we need to talk about this, debrief.”

 

“But you want to at least be in briefs first,  right?” Clint couldn’t restrain the joke. It’s like Phil had some magic key that unleashed this flow of ridiculousness from his mouth. He knew he was joking to cover his discomfort. _Ok, so if I get fired from SHIELD, Nat and I…_

“And you aren’t getting fired from SHIELD.”

 

“How do you DO that?”

“If anything, Director Fury might give you a citation for capturing Ms. Cheriwnski.” Pause. “You did capture her, right?”

 

“In the trunk area. Patched. 2 to 3 more hours.”

“Right, good. I got all the evidence on my flash drive uploaded to SHIELD a few hours ago. Post mask, pre flechette.” Phil winced, nodded and looked around. “I’d like to be upright, and not flash all my assets to my asset.”

“You made a joke, sir! Clearly you’re still not well.” Clint’s face had a grin on it. He voice was making a joke. But he knew things were not just going to go back to they way they had been.

 

 


	25. (Not) A Real Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, but look, an update!

The next time they talked, _really_ talked, they were in Coulson’s office a few days later. The extraction team had been on site quickly once Clint had called them in, once he was sure Coulson had been stable and in command of himself again. Today they were having their unofficial meeting to recap prior to individually writing their After Action Reports.

 

Coulson ( _Not Phil now, clearly back to his full Agent persona of blandness)_ was in his usual suit, well tailored, impeccable, but unremarkable somehow, calculated to blend in rather than highlight or stand out. Only Hawkeye noticed that the shirt collar was a centimeter higher than usual, and the sleeves a smidge longer over his wrists. Covering cuts and bruises, he knew. Above the neck was clean, from being safely under the hood. And hands, well, it was easy to explain away abrasions and hematomas on your hands as carelessness. Even though Coulson was never, ever, careless.

 

Clint was in his tactical suit. He had just grabbed the nearest clean thing when he got notified of the appointment. It wasn’t like he had been hiding on his couch in his pajamas for 3 days ( _only 2, in the middle Katie-Kate had visited to harass him._ ) So no, he hadn’t done any laundry. Or eaten real food. He wasn’t sure if he had showered, but he knew he hadn’t shaved today. Couldn’t look himself in the eyes that long. He finally threw a towel over the vanity mirror to brush his teeth. ( _Dental hygiene was key._ )

 

Standing in front of Coulson’s desk, Clint wasn’t 100% sure what to expect. Phil had mentioned a citation, but that was a joke, clearly. He didn’t _think_  he was being fired, Phil had been clear on that point.

 

“Ahem,” a polite voice coughed.

 _Shit_. He’d been zoning out right here, standing in Phil’s office!

Clint snapped his eyes to Coulson’s for an instant then hit the middle distance in a neutral expression, indicating his readiness for …. whatever.

 

“I won’t ask how you’ve been, I can see the situation hasn’t… been optimal.” Clint stole a look at Phil’s mouth; he loved to see thoughts cross his face unspoken as the sub chose a more appropriate phrasing. This time he had been about to say ‘hasn’t been good.’

 

Unabashed by the lack of verbal response, Phil continued.

“I know at least where you’ve been. Miss Bishop was kind enough to do a wellness check on you and report back to me.” Pause. “When I say report…”

 

“You got a lecture? Dude, I thought she only lectured me!”

 

“Ah, no. I received a long and detailed lecture on how exactly you were sitting in, I quote, ‘musty pj’s watching reruns and eating old pizza.’ Apparently she’s under the impression that if I don’t tell you to eat, or feed you, you’ll become malnourished and get various delightful sounding diseases.” Phil folded his hands neatly on his desk and appraised Clint.

 

Clint just let himself be studied, not even chiming in with his oft-repeated mantra that pizza in fact had every single food group and therefore counted as health food.

 

“Agent Barton, what the fuck?”

 

“Excuse me?” Clint was certain he had misheard. Perhaps Coulson had really asked 'what’s a duck?’ and needed an explanation of waterfowl.

 

“I said, what the fuck? You’re not taking care of yourself. I told you not to worry about your job security and not to worry about me. It…”  His mouth started towards ‘hurts’ and then switched, “...concerns me, when any of my assets are clearly suffering in this way. Especially when they so recently assisted me in a… personal situation.”

 

Phil did not need waterfowl explained.

 


	26. Don't say "What".

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry.

Clint’s knees went a little weak at that point and the next the thing he knew, he found himself sitting on Coulson’s remarkably comfortable couch, Coulson himself crouched in front of him, worry written across his face.

 

“Did I just… pass out?” Clint heard himself inquire.

 

“Not quite, Agent.” Phil’s hands were on Clint’s knees, the warmth of his palms seeping through the tac suit’s impervious material. “You got here on your own steam. When was the last time you ate or drank?”

 

_A + for not fainting in front of the man he … ah, fuck, the man he loved_. Clint moaned and buried his head in his hands, practically crown to to crown with Coulson now.

 

“Clint? Is it, did something happen?” The sub sounded not just professionally concerned, but disconcerted.

 

“No, no. Nothing happened. I must uh, need some coffee. D’ya have any coffee?” Clint deflected, as usual, meeting Phil’s eyes for a moment as he inquired.

 

“Here, start with this.” Coulson magically produced a cold water bottle out of nowhere and pressed it into Clint’s hands while he stood and exited the room for a moment.

With no other ideas of what to do, Clint drank the water. The cold woke him up a little, until he got hit with brain freeze.

“Fuck!”

 

Phil returned smoothly, carrying a pair of ( _please be full?_ ) coffee mugs, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

 

“You must be feeling a bit better if you can curse my slow service.” The self deprecating joke took a moment to make sense to Clint. He accepted the blessedly full coffee mug, noting the perfectly light color he preferred. _(‘Agent, coffee is a caffeine delivery method, not an ice cream treat,’ he could hear Phil-in-his-head._ ) After a cautious sip to test the temperature, Clint greedily guzzled the rest, swishing it around in his mouth to warm his palate to dissipate the brain freeze more quickly.

 

Coulson stood, leaning against his desk, holding the second mug.

 

“I’m not sure I should give you this one; you might need it intravenously.” The dry warmth hit Clint in his gut. He did love this man.

 

“Nah, man, it’s fine now. Sorry I got all wobbly on you.”

 

“I don’t actually think it is.” Coulson’s eyes were studying him,  assessing, taking him apart and deciding… something?

 

_Don’t say ‘What’._

“Huh?” _Classy_.

 

“This isn’t how you operate. This isn’t how you react to ops that go wrong or coworkers getting… wounded.” _‘I know you’_ , his eyes said. _‘I see you, this isn’t you.’_

 

“Is this about… my situation?” Phil phrased it as delicately as he could but the question had to be asked. “Do you want a different supervisory agent, for a while?” Phil couldn’t help the last phrase, couldn’t help trying to make Clint’s choice not-permanent, hoping what they had, whatever they had, wasn’t ruined.

 

“What? No! I don’t want anyone else!” Clint was horrified. “You think I… I don’t respect you anymore? Geez boss, I thought you were the smart one here.” _Please don’t ask me to explain._

 

“Explain, Barton.” _Fuck_.

 

Clint gave up. He knew after he said whatever he had to say, that Coulson would frown and step away from him. Formal words would be invoked, things like ‘duty’ and ‘professional’. But he had to say something because Coulson would know if he lied.

 

“Sir, what happened, to you… wasn’t a problem. The problem was I liked it. A lot. Like you. Too much. And-I-know-nothing-can-happen-but-” The words rushed out of him. _Still a coward, can’t even say that you love him_.

 

“Stop.” Coulson raised a hand. _Here it comes, god, I wish I wasn’t such a disappointment to him._

  
“I…” Phil began _(because, fuck yes, PHIL, he worked for Coulson but he loved Phil._ ) And then the man in the tasteful suit paused.


	27. A few hundred times...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter I've had to re write numerous times. Sometimes the dom/sub tone wasn't right, sometimes the language was stilted, and even now I feel like the end doesn't quite transition to the next chapter I have planned.
> 
> And there's a misplaced modifier I can't figure out how to fix.

Phil wanted to be sure he understood.

 

“To be clear, you liked the aftercare portion and not the bloody, out-my-mind portion, correct?”

  
Clint nodded abjectly, scrupulously counting the threads in the carpet at his feet.

 

“I think we’ve been wasting a lot of time.”

 

Clint’s heart died and turned to ashes in his chest.

 

“I think we’ve both been idiots, actually.” Phil continued in a neutral tone.

 

“I told Fury I’d deal with this, and I haven’t. I told Natasha I would talk you about how I felt, and I didn’t. I told myself I’d be honest with you and I wasn’t. For that I am sorry. Will you accept my apology?”

Phil moved to a kneeling position, truly on his knees now in front of Clint, and reached out to grab the archer’s hands in his own.

 

“What? No, I- I mean, yes, but you don’t have to-”

 

“I do have to. I need you to forgive me if we can- move past this.” Phil’s voice caught as he spoke, betraying his sincerity.

 

“I really don’t understand any of this and you don’t have to apologize to me. I’m just gonna- go be somewhere else for a while?” Clint tried to extricate his hands from Phil’s clasp but since he found he couldn’t quite get free ( _and rather than engage in a mutually embarrassing hand tugging fight_ ), he sat back down, finally looking up puzzledly into Phil’s open face.

 

Parts of Phil’s speech were filtering into Clint’s brain.  ‘ _...talk you about how I felt...be honest with you...move past this…_ ’  The ashes in his chest blazed to life more strongly than ever, fed on crumbs of hope.

 

“Wait, what did Fury and Nat want you to say to me?”

 

“Simply that I wanted more, from you.” Now it was Phil’s turn to drop his gaze. “Please Clint,” his voice low, “I want your protection, and your care. I want to be of service to you in any way I can, I want to sleep in your bed and eat your food and never use the damn DomDirect.com service again.” The words had a formal measure to them, almost rehearsed.

 

“Is this a put-on? Is that some line you use on doms to- I dunno, do something shady to them?”

 

“What? No! I- jeez, Clint, I might have composed an interoffice memo on the subject a few times is all. I’m sorry my words don’t please you.”

 

Barton barked a short laugh and pulled Phil closer by their clasped hands. “I’m kidding you, perfectionist. Is ‘a few’ code for ‘a few hundred’ perhaps?”

 

With a deep sigh, Phil’s slow grin spread across his face. “Maybe, sir. I like to be prepared.”

 

That heard, the dom leaned forward, giving the sub plenty of time to duck, telegraphing every movement, and met his lips in a first, sweet, kiss of possession. Clint’s mouth moved hotly, tongue asking entry, and then meeting Phil’s own as the intensity between the two men grew.

 


	28. Fountains and Fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I found the the porn!  
> Credit due to Through a Mirror Darkly by raiining (http://archiveofourown.org/works/1690133)  
> and Available by infiniteeight (http://archiveofourown.org/works/1330585)
> 
> So there's still another Natasha chapter left, and maybe some fluff left.  
> Requests and suggestions welcome!

Hawkeye finally had his hands and mouth latched on Coulson’s ass. On, in, close enough. He was systematically using his lips and tongue and fingers to take the man apart. Phil was on all fours on the bed, spread out like a thanksgiving meal all for him.

 

A black ring circled the base of Phil’s cock, keeping him from cumming but not stemming the persistent flow of pre cum slipping onto the duvet as Clint curled two fingers into his ass, all the while licking and nibbling at the swell of his ass.

 

Phil was not exactly sure how long this had been going on, somewhere between hours and ages, possibly lifetimes. He had begged, for a while, for Clint to just fuck him already, he was so ready, but then Clint had asked if he would mind very much wearing a gag and Phil’s cock had gotten impossibly harder, so now he was moaning steadily around a medium sized, sparkly, purple ball gag that Clint had bought especially for him.

 

Phil remembered the warm glow he had felt when Clint shyly presented the gift to him, after their 4th real date, to the Fountains and Fireworks presentation at Longwood Gardens (set to movie soundtracks this year!)  They had been in the midst of discussing what got them off, what was negotiable and what what were deal breakers, what they had enjoyed with previous partners, and what hadn’t worked for them.

 

“It’s not a deal breaker,” Clint explained steadily, “but I really get off on my sub wearing things I bought them. Either jewelry, or insertables. Not at work, obviously.”

 

“Not at work?” Phil questioned. “What if you came back from an assignment and I were sitting at my desk doing paperwork, wearing a toy you gave me, in my ass, ready for you at a moments notice?”

 

“Fuck, Phil! Yes, yeah, that’d be amazing, But I know you’re on call sometimes, and I wouldn’t want our… thing to get in the way.”

 

“Hmm.” Phil just murmured his thinking noise and filed the idea away.

 

Back in the present, Clint pulled his fingers out of Phil’s ass and slowly slid them back in, with that killer twist and curve at the end, making Phil’s insides contract and his dick pulse, drooling another line of pre cum. Clint had been amazed at first, at how much pre cum Phil produced when his prostate was milked, and could easily spend hours edging Phil, praising him and sucking love bites and bruises onto any available skin.

 

They had both discovered that they enjoyed Phil being marked up, and were considering exploring cold branding, for the future maybe.

 

Judging that his sub was down far enough, had been patient enough and that he was ready to end Phil’s pleasurable torture, Clint reached down and pulled the quick release on the cock ring,

“Sweet boy, I’m going to bury my cock in your ass now and I want you to cum whenever you want to, make noise if you need to, I love hearing your voice like this.” Clint slicked himself up with lube, shivering at being touched after long denying himself. His cock nudged gently at Phil’s hole, just kissing the rosy entrance before sliding down to slip past his balls, Phil’s whole body shuddering with need now.

 

Finally, _finally_ , Clint guided himself into Phil in one smooth motion until his balls rested on the subs ass.

 

“God, Phil, you’re so perfect, your ass feels so good, gonna make you feel so good…” Clint’s mouth was beyond his ken now, just randomly spewing happiness and lust.

 

Anchoring his hands on Phil’s hips, Clint pulled himself out and set up a steady pace, this wasn’t going to take long, they both were beyond ready. Phil had been moaning steadily and now was alternately panting and arching his back and gasping as Clint angled to press against his p-spot.

  
Reduced to chanting, “Yes, yes, yeah, yes..” Clint put a tiny bit more thrust into his movement and that pushed Phil over the edge. His body contracted around Clint’s cock, hot walls rippling as his own cock pulsed and his cum flowed out freely at last. Feeling Phil cum was what Clint needed, and Phil’s ass milked Clint’s seed out of him as well, leaving them both wrung out and panting.


	29. IT'S NOT REALLY AN UPDATE!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially putting this project on hiatus. My sincerest apologies to anyone who was waiting eagerly for me to find energy or inspiration. My next project is audio recording "Between the personal and the real" which everyone ought to read as it is far, far better than anything in my head these days.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1155554

///////////


	30. All of your prayers have been answered. The answer is no.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I decided any true Coulson fan ought to get off her ass and watch Agents of Shield...

And then Phil died.

 

Not for seven seconds, or for four minutes either. For **days**.

 

By the time he came to some semblance of awareness, as an Asian woman massaged his shoulders and neck, he realized he had no idea how much time had passed.

Every time he asked about Clint, _(which was every time he opened his mouth, really_ ) he heard two voices overlapping, two voices responding.

 

"This feels terrific." **/** "Where's Clint? I want to see Clint..."

          "Clint's fine, you'll see him soon." **/** "Listen to him. He needs his dom!"

"I need to talk to Clint, please?" **/** "Will he be here soon?"

          "Clint's fine, you'll see him soon." **/** "You heard Fury, Barton isn't allowed to know about Tahiti."

"This feels great." **/** "Please let me talk to Clint or let me die!"

          "Tahiti's a magical place, isn't it?" **/** "Listen to him!"

"Tahiti's a magical place." **/** "Let me DIE!"

 

Phil died during the battle of New York. **/** Phil was healed in Tahiti.

          Clint knew Phil died. **/** Clint knew Phil died.

 

 

 


	31. This is not my beautiful house.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actually I wasn't sure how to continue from here but then tumblr. Magic. Don't clicky the link until after you read.  
> http://mrgaretcarter.tumblr.com/post/127200435915/some-of-nats-faces-during-clints-family-reveal

It is easy, in the end, because no one except Natasha knew that Clint had bought a collar and was planning to propose to Coulson.

The Avengers knew they were close, but no more than Nat and Clint were. 

When Fury told the team about Coulson's death, only Nat saw Clint's reaction- the stark disbelief and pain flash across his face, only to be replaced by stoicism. But his posture- he couldn't quite stand up straight, like he had been stabbed in the gut.

 

The rest of the ream was in shock and took up the rallying cry, 'For Phil!'.

 

Only Natasha saw Fury's mask slip, assessing how well his feint had been taken, how effective his ploy had been.  

It wasn't a lie.

Coulson had died.

But Fury was making sure that wasn't a permanent roadblock.

* * *

 

 

Natasha saw, and her anger flared, in a deep way that was rare for her.

So she confronted him. After the Battle. After schwarma.

 

And he told her the truth. Why not? Who else could Fury trust to tell the whole story too?

Her face betrayed nothing. Except...

"You cannot do this to Clint. He won't be of any _use_ to you, if you don't tell him, if you don't bring Phil back to him."

Voice twisting on the word 'use' to tell him how she felt about his puppet-master bullshit.

 

"Phil agreed to it."

Natasha just stared at Fury, eyes drilling into him.

" _When_ did he agree?"

Pause.

"When he made level 7."

 

"That was before he and Clint... that was before. He would not agree now and you know it."

"I know what's on paper. And what's on paper is that Phil agreed. And if you think Barton can't handle this, I can arrange for him to take a _vacation_ too."

A sharp inhalation of breath showed him how much he had shocked her, how much she had read in his threat to her own stability.

* * *

 

Natasha was right of course.

After a few weeks of deep depression, Fury sent Agent Barton on a short assignment, to a small tropical island. 

For his own benefit.

To Tahiti.

* * *

 

When the Avengers met Clint's 'family', only Natasha's face couldn't hold the mask of belief. 

The lies tasted bitter in her mouth.

This was not who Clint was; these nice children and lovely sub who needed Clint's strength.

And he would never know.

* * *

 

Coulson got memories of a nice cellist Domme who let him organize her messy files, closets, finances, geneology, when his need to serve became too strong.

And he would never know,

 

 

 


	32. Meet the new boss/Same as the old boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still catching up on AoS, hoping to try and get this to sync up better with that canon. We shall see.  
> Also uh... I am not sure I like this chapter so it may disappear or change dramatically.

Then SHIELD fell.

Fury died (though Natasha has her doubts).

HYDRA rose, all levels were gone, alliances were shattered, and every agent had to choose a new path, having all been officially declared dead or treasonous fugitives.

Some simply fled, took on new existences, and tried to blend into the "normal" world, hiding their training and denying their past.

Others embraced the new regime, whether whole-heartedly or not, figuring a new rebellion would come along in time to overturn these revolutionaries. 

A few were either lucky enough or brave enough to find their way to the new, smaller, SHIELD under its new Director.

* * *

 

Audrey thought Phil had died in the coup.

          There was no funeral, he had died a fugitive and a traitor. 

Clint made new identities for Laura and the kids. Helped them move. Got them settled.

          And... disappeared. 

* * *

 

Until someone mailed Clint Barton a Polaroid photograph, he had thought he was hiding very successfully.

How they even knew where to mail him anything was a mystery. 

He didn't exactly have a mailbox. More like he had a diner he went to, once a month or so, and not on the same day or even week of the month either. 

But nevertheless, under his utensils sat a Polaroid photograph showing his own silhouette, from behind.

Beside him, under his hand on a shoulder, knelt another man. 

A man Clint did not recognize. 

And Clint didn't forget faces. Or people who knelt for him, for that matter. 

Nor did he recall when or where the picture could have been taken.

 

What had he forgotten? _Who_ had he forgotten? And how the hell could he have forgotten any of it without outside intervention?

Clint didn't know who would have all the answers, besides Fury. 

That dick.

But he was dead.

So he made the only move left to him, he made a call to a payphone in Portland.

(Maine, she liked the whales.)

 

 


	33. SHIELD Husbands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another shoutout to a favorite C/C fic, A Bureaucratic Nightmare.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1270534/chapters/2624716

"What do you remember about our handler?"

Her voice, utterly devoid of clues, should have been a clue itself.

"Our handlers? I dunno, they were mostly decent, a little too fixated on by the book shit, but that's how all SHIELD handlers are, right?"

"What were they like, personally?"

"Personally? Geez, Nat, they wore suits and drove bland cars and had nice little subs at home with 2.5 kiddos..."

She sighs. This is harder than she had anticipated.

 

"Ok, Clint, who recruited you?"

"It was uh.. what was his name? Kemper? Cardozo?"

"And what did he look like?"

"I don't...    ....wait, why don't I remember? I never forget a face! Natasha!"

He turned agitatedly to her, seeking answers.

"Calm down Clint, it's ok."

"No, it's really not! Look, is this the guy in the photo? The guy who recruited me? Cooper or whatever? Why would my recruiter kneel for me? What the FUCK is going on?"

 

That's when Nat sapped him on the side of his head. He was getting too panicky. If she was going to convince him to come to Portland (Oregon now because that's where new SHIELD was headquartered) with her, to climb into the memory machine, she needed him in possession of all his faculties. 

* * *

 

 

In Portland (Oregon) ....

 

Coulson sat up, the memory machine powered down for now.

His hands were shaking slightly and blood trickled from one ear.

"I can't believe I forgot Clint... Why would Fury do that?"

Skye just sighed and hugged him. "Fury was kind of a dick, and this is exactly the sneaky kind of shit he would claim was for 'your own good'."

"Nick... Nick was my friend. I can't believe he would excise the best relationship I ever had and think it was for _my_ own good. There had to be another reason."

"He probably had 12 so-called _good_ reasons, like world security bullshit. Avengers bonding crap. The bottom line is, he used you and then he used your death and did everything in his power to make sure you would never know."

"And Clint doesn't know either. He's out there somewhere, without me."

"Well, yes and no."

"Excuse me?" Phil fixed Skye with a look that would brook no circumlocution.

"He doesn't remember you, that's totally true. For now. But we..."

"We? We who?"

"May and I. And Fitz Simmons. And Bobbi. And Mack."

"So everyone in SHIELD except me?"

"Ok, but listen, we got a message from The Black Widow! How cool is that?"

"Skye, what did she say?"

"She's bringing Clint here. Somehow. She thinks the memory machine can unwipe him too."

Phil had stood to wipe his face with a towel, and now put out hand to the nearest table to steady himself.

"They're coming here? When?"

 

 

"Now." The accent was gone, but the voice was the same- neither commanding nor demanding, simply stated.

And next to Natasha, breaking Phil's heart, again, always, looking baffled, stood Clint.


	34. The answer is still no.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So they just announced that AoS (among others) will be at NYCC, where *I* will be! Squee!
> 
> Also I almost typo'd prostrate with prostate. Which would have been very very different.

"Is this the guy?"

But Clint didn't ask Phil, or even make eye contact. He was asking Natasha. His body language was defensive, stiff. 

 

"Welcome, Agent Barton."

Phil took the hardest step forward in his life and extended his hand.

"I realize you don't recall me but we have met before."

Skye snorted when he said 'met' and Phil AND Nat shot her a look. 

"What? They have definitely MORE than met!"

 

Clint

( _Barton,_

_he isn't the same,_

_this isn't my Clint,_

_this isn't my dom,_

_so why do I want to prostrate myself before him and_

_..._ _cry?_ )

      slowly took his hand, shook it, then let go. 

The world didn't stop spinning, lightning didn't strike anyone. 

He felt the same as he had before they touched, before he stepped into the room.

 

Turning back to Natasha, Clint's agitation was increasing.

"What the fuck, Nat? You dragged me here to see this guy who, whatever you guys say, I have NEVER met, and you want to put me in some machine? Because you think it will fix me? Maybe I don't want to be fixed! Did you ever think of that?" He was practically growling.

 

A glance was passed around the room, until it landed with Coulson.

"Agent Barton, I understand your... reluctance-" 

_(his mouth moved to say fear but it changed,_

_I know what his mouth looks like when it says fear)_

"- to address this situation, but you have to know something is wrong, has been wrong, very wrong, for quite some time.  When I went through a ... similar situation, I had a coherent timeline for my past but none of the emotional resonance was there. Nothing felt strong, it was like watching a story that happened to someone else. Does... does any of that feel like you?" 

Phil held his breath. He refused to force Clint into the machine. If he really didn't want to, then Phil would let him walk away. At least this time they would both have a choice. 

 

Clint slowly shook his head, and Phil's broken heart cracked in a new direction.

Finally, slowly, Clint spoke.

"I get flashes sometimes. Not visuals. But, feelings? Like when I was falling for Laura, my first thought was 'Is this happening again?'. But it had never happened to me before.  Stuff like that."

He peeked at Phil from under his lashes and Phil realized how much fear was present for them both, another breathing entity in the room.

 

"Ok. Ok, we can work with that. If you want to. Of course. Because I'm not Fury. I won't do this unless-"

The words came rushing out of Phil's mouth, spilling over his tongue and past his teeth in his haste and anxiety that had Clint put his hands up and step away.

"Dude, chill. Take a breath."

Automatically, Phil's body breathed. 

"Can we just talk maybe first? Before I get into that super scary machine that you say is going to fix my head, which was fucked with by a similar machine, also with the intention of 'helping' me?"

 

Natasha sighed. 

"If you must wait, talk, I will go be elsewhere. I got him here," She looked pointedly at Phil, "You need to handle the rest."

She grabbed Skye's hand as she headed out.

"Wait, what? Nooo! I want to see and hear AC's former lover and ..." Her voice trailed off down the hall as Natasha dragged her forcibly away and shut the door to the room.

 

 


	35. Wherever you may be, take this child of mine far away from me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So canonically AoS says Phil isn't super yoga flexible guy but since my canon here contradicts that, let's say EVERYONE is very flexible because I say so.  
> Bonus points if you ID the chapter title quote source.

They stand there, awkwardly for a few moments before Phil turns and gestures to the memory machine.

"I know it looks a bit like a CAT scan machine, but the technology actually comes from the Centipede project and uses theta waves to stimulate the brain into accessing previously hidden memories."

A pause.

"It doesn't write memories, like the TAHITI project, only reveal what's been over written."

Clint snorts.

"I don't recall consenting to the TAHITI project, what makes you think I'm just going to jump into another machine of SHIELD's?"

 

Phil looks hesitant, then forges ahead. 

"As far as we can tell, Agent Barton, you didn't consent to TAHITI. You weren't actually consulted. Fury slid it in under a 'necessary medical care when an agent has been compromised.' consent form you signed when you were first recruited."

 

Clint still won't make eye contact, seating himself behind Phil's desk.

"Yeah, I kinda figured that much. Unless they did a LOT more editing than Nat will cop to, there's no way I would ever agree to this. I like my memories, even the tough ones. "

 

"Like Trickshot," Phil offers.

Clint's eyes do flash up at that.

"You know about that guy, huh?"

 

"Yes. I met him, sort of, one time. Well, he tried to kill me, that is, and I disagreed."

They both grin very briefly.

 

"Was I... was I there? When Trickshot tried to kill you?"

Clint's uncertainty hurts Phil's heart.

"Yes, you were. You saved my ass, actually. Said 'Turnabout is fair play.'"

"That does sound like me. What favor was I returning?"

"I... recruited you away from the circus, and at the time you were pretty underfed and functionally illiterate. I.... We fixed those issues and you appreciated my efforts."

Phil _isn't_ blushing. He _isn't_ remembering how Clint's first offer of repayment was a blowjob, proffered when they were outrunning an IED on a very very short timer.

 

Clint watches him closely but chooses not to push.

Somehow he too is feeling warmth in his cheeks, at some memory just outside his grasp; unfocused, but centered on sparkling grey eyes that match this man's.

He doesn't know what's going on here, if this is some con game or actually what it says on the tin, or even which would be worse. 

But he is drawn to this articulate, focused, skilled sub.

His body feels loose, relaxed, in a way he hasn't felt lately.

His balls are heavy in his tac pants, and he is curious, so damn curious, about how this man could ever have knelt for him.

 

Phil is carefully not putting out any signals at all, submissive, manipulative or otherwise. 

 _'No spy shit', Clint would say_.

If he could persuade Clint to try this, that wouldn't mean anything for the two of them. He could get his memories back, shake Phil's hand, then turn and walk out the door back to his farm in the midwest. And Phil would let him. Even if it broke him to let Clint go, having a choice was too important now. 

So Phil refuses to trade on their relationship to influence Clint's decision.

* * *

 

Clint never got that memo.

Sitting up as straight as he can ( _former circus kid, he is also terribly flexible_ ), hands linked in front of him on the broad desk, Clint asks the question that has been playing in his mind nonstop, nigh obsessing him since the day he saw that picture:

"Who the hell were we to each other, that you would kneel for me?"

 

Phil swallows carefully. "The nature of our personal relationship shouldn't impact your choice to regain or not regain your memories. "

 

Another derisive snort. 

"Ok guy, take your ego out of the equation for a hot second. I just want a preview of what I'm going to learn if I go into that thing.

 

Phil honest-to-god cringes. They are wandering dangerously close to territory that will send him into drop if he doesn't navigate carefully. His body doesn't know that Clint isn't his dom anymore and is exquisitely attuned to perceived disapproval from him.

 

"I apologize, Agent Barton. That was not my intent. We were in a long term, romantic and sexual, committed, monogamous, cohabitational relationship."

"Yeah, I figured it had to be something like that, for you to be reacting this way. How did it end?"

 

A puzzled look crosses Phil's face, then it clears and he glances down.

"I died."

 

Pause.

"For a while, at least. Director Fury brought me back, but used the TAHITI program so I would be able to function without you. Really, so he wouldn't have to tell anyone he had the ability to bring back the dead."

 

"Are you, like, a zombie? Eat brains? Drink blood? Howl at the moon? Tentacles hidden under your suit?"

"Ah, no. I had some hypergraphia but that's been resolved. I'm pretty much back to factory condition."  A small smile swings between them.

 

"So I didn't know you died?"

"No, no, everyone ONLY knew I died. Fury didn't tell anyone I was alive, again, for months and by then it was too late. He'd wiped you from my memories, and after you went downhill following the attack on New York and my death, he made the executive decision to redact your memories as well, to maintain your ability to function. That's the whole story, as much as I know." _Almost. Except for Laura and the kids and Audrey._

 

"Huh." Clint ponders.

Phil lets him. It was such a relief to let his dom _(even if he wasn't actually his dom these days)_ take the reins and make the decisions, for once.

 

"Fine. Fuck it. Let's do this. It can't be worse than not knowing." Clint rises from the desk and in a swift movement hops onto the table of the memory machine.

"Calgon, take me away." But his bravado is betrayed when Clint reaches to clasp Phil's hand in his, squeezing it warmly.

 

Phil squeezes back and reaches with his free hand to start the machine.

 

 

 


	36. That's how it could have happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans within plans here.  
> There's an Anne Bishop reference thrown in today for fun.  
> SO I am on hold here again because all my attentions are on a super secret awesome Phlint project I KNOW you will all love. Eventually.

Here's what Phil saw:

 

As soon as he hits the switch that activates the machine, Clint's entire body  _bows_ off the the table. supported by his heels and the very crown of his head. 

"Clint? Can you hear me? Clint!" Phil isn't quite panicking, but is certain this isn't how it's supposed to happen, that he didn't react this way to the process.

 

Clint's grip on his hand hasn't stopped; it's punishing in fact, with even his very short nails digging into the back of Phil's hand, but the sub doesn't pull away. 

 

As suddenly as it began, all the tension in Clint's body ceases, even his hand in Phil's relaxes, his body flops back onto the table and Phil is shocked to see a dark stain spread over the man's crotch. 

 

He tries to initiate the verbal guiding process again, calling Clint's name a few times in a variety of tones, from soothing to authoritative, all to no avail. 

It's not clear if anything is happening, if the machine is doing any good, but since Clint doesn't seem to be hurting actively, Phil decides to give it 5 minutes and then shut it down if there's no change. 

 

* * *

 

Here's what Clint saw:

 

When Phil hits the switch, it's like a spotlight suddenly is trained on Clint's brain and he can see everything, from his birth, his first steps, ( _his mother's face smiling encouragingly at him_ ), his early shots with the bow, all wonky and unsteady, to every shot he has ever made, all at once, seared into his mind's eye. It's like the filter between all his memories is gone, and they all cover every available expanse of his attention. He can see every mistake he ever made, every unkind word he ever said, all the punishments he endured, he feels them all, at once. 

 

Somewhere nearby he can sense Phil calling to him, worried, but he is right here, he has always been here, he is wrapping Phil in his arms in that ridiculous robe in the back of the SUV and he is running through the pylons to get away from Phil and he is standing above Phil, one hand on the back of his neck, bursting with pride. 

 

Finally, blessedly, the spotlight dims slightly and he is suddenly looking at two over lapping images of his past, watching himself bump into Laura in the grocery store, as she drops a jar of spaghetti sauce that explodes in slow motion; he is also curled up on Phil's couch, reading Jane Eyre and feeling the weight of Phil's occasional glances on him like a warm glow. 

 

He sees himself kneeling in front of Laura with a small velvet covered box in his hands; he sees himself miserable and alone in his bed, unwashed and unfed, consumed in missing Phil.

 

There's no way he can choose to erase either version, they're both him, some part of each is true for his heart. While his mind knows that the past with Laura is mostly fabrication, his heart isn't ready to forget her completely. He just isn't the kind of man who could simply forget people he has cared about, not purposefully. But there's also no way he can live without this full history of his and Phil's, without the potential that they may write more history together.

 

Clint's brain is very, very good at seeing the big picture, at integrating lots of information and processing disparate parts into a synthesis.

 

He files Laura's memories as "Not real, but still important, Priority 2" and Phil's memories as "Real, and vital, Priority 1".  He'll keep all of it, though it won't be easy to handle, to manage everyone's emotional needs, including his own. but he owes this, to all of them. Fury might have thought he was fixing him, but the truth is that he was shattered. Pieces were missing. Now he has all the pieces and he can start to rebuild the chalice of his mind and of his heart.


	37. A return to consciousness and a departure from same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone still reading this?

Finally, after an eternity of Clint rummaging through his own mind unfettered by human constructs like time or space, Phil, worried, cut the power to the memory machine. 

Nothing happened. Clint simply laid there, eyes shut, breathing steadily. 

Reluctantly, Phil reached out and touched the other man’s shoulder with his finger tips.  
“Barton?” _Ah fuck, I broke him. I broke my favorite person…_

“M’not broken, Phil.” Eyes crinkling even before they opened, Clint began to grin. “Might actually be fixed, for the first time in a long time. Thank you, for that.”

Still unsure about what Clint had recovered, or what it might mean, and resolutely putting those thoughts aside, Coulson just waited. He’d waited years by this point, what would another hour do to a heart made of ashes? He perched lightly on the edge of a desk. If his hands were in fists so tight that even his closely cropped nails bit into his palms to the point of pain, it wasn’t visible on his face.

Heaving a deep sigh, Clint wrenched himself up from the machine and swung his legs down, mirroring Phil’s position on the desk. There they sat, not quite making eye contact for a period between 2 minutes and 2 centuries. 

“I can’t just walk away from Laura, you know.”

“Certainly not.” There was no disappointment in Phil’s voice. Tension, because the situation was tense, but not even a hint of the pain roiling in his gut.

“I won’t walk away from you either, Phil.”

Coulson did let something out at that, a short, bitter laugh, quickly cut off as he replied snarkily.  
“Clint, I’m certainly not looking to be a housepet or second, or go live in the woods with your new family. I have a job, and people here.” 

At that Clint caught Phil’s eye and spoke steadily.  
“No. No, Phil, you don’t get to do that.”

The cold chill swept over Phil’s shoulders as his body realized his dom was some combination of leaving him and mad at him. It took every ounce of bitterly won self control to stay upright, but he managed.

“I don’t live in the woods, either. It’s a farm. We have fields. I don’t want you there, though.”

Regrettably, this was where Phil’s subconscious decided Phil’s consciousness needed to check out, and as his eyes rolled to the whites, his body slid from the desk into an undignified puddle of limbs on the floor.

Nearly as quickly as he fell, Clint was there, catching him, holding him tightly.


	38. Many options, all bad.

Clint faced a dilemma. How could he handle this?

 

He knew how to bring Phil around, wake him with sweet lies. Because the truth was too… complex to be filtered through a weakened psyche. As much as he ached to swoop in and save Phil again, it wasn’t fair to either of them to make promises he didn’t intend to keep. The process of restoring balance in his life was going to be messy, drawn out, and time consuming. But all Phil would hear would be rejection, again. And the lies? Neither of them could repeat this incapacitation because of willful untruths.

 

He could just get up and leave, get one of Coulson’s team members who were certain to be lurking nearby, have one of them awaken the man without resorting to half truths or deliberate misdirection.

 

There were other, less savory options, of course. Phil wouldn’t die from subdrop. _Probably_. 

 

Clint could leave him here, alone. Lock the door, forcefully tell the minions to stay out of out of it. But even if Phil could come through that physically unharmed, it would sever any remaining link or bond between them. They’d both be coming to each other with clean slates. Painfully clean.  Looking through his memories, Clint could see that their relationship had bloomed because of their work together, their mutual dependence and cooperation. Without those circumstances the chances of falling in love so deeply with each other, again? Those odds weren’t good enough.

 

He could also dump Phil back in the memory machine and do a full wipe. Phil didn’t seem to know it, but the machine was a full read/write drive. Without a backup to write onto Phil’s mind, the write option would wipe his personality completely away, like condensation from a mirror. Phil would be gone, forever. **Not an option**.

 

While Clint pondered, he sat on the floor, back against the desk Phil had slid from, the other man in his arms and lap, ironically echoing their first time being so close, back in NJ, in the rental SUV.

 

Clint never claimed to be the best drawn-out thinker; on an op he decided quickly and intuitively what the conditions were like, where to shoot, when to shoot. He went with his gut, every time. Or with Phil’s guidance. 

 

A quick glance down confirmed, guidance system was offline. Damn. But he had to ask...

 

“Phil?” 

“‘Mhm?”

“Phil, I need your help.”

“Fr’gbl… Clint?” Clearer now, Phil’s voice was like one of those rays of sunlight that pierce a cloudy sky.

“I can’t do this alone, I can’t do any of this. I need you.” Clint was whispering in Phil’s close cropped hair now, trying desperately not to lie or make promises for instantaneous quick-fixes. 


	39. Interlude: What Laura Knew

It would have been cruel, Nick knew, to give Clint to Laura and then burden her with the secret of his past. But it would really have been beyond the pale of scientific inquiry to subject children, infants really, to the T.A.H.I.T.I. program. 

So he compromised. (Nick was a great compromiser, he’d have you know. So long as everyone agrees with him, they can compromise.) Thus the Director of SHIELD began an internet relationship as a catfish. Just as Phil had a predilection for SuperNanny, and Hawkeye for Dog Cops, Nick was a sucker for Catfish. He’d taken notes. He had every resource available to make sure the phone number matched, that the details he shared lined up with Barton’s dossier. The photos were a breeze. Barton was on ice, so thankfully Laura hadn’t asked for one of those declasse photos with a recent newspaper, but if she had, he’d have managed something. 

Because for all the eye patch, leather duster, badass-ness, Nick Fury wasn’t a total waste of life. He’d saved some people (killed some, fewer, hopefully), and his life goal was to keep shit safe. The Avengers were only a cog in his master plan. Coulson’s new team (because that man just seemed to exude team spirit and cooperation?) was turning into the newest weapon to handle inhuman “situation”, so Nick couldn’t regret what he’d done to Phil. And now he needed Barton back in fighting form, so he had to deal with giant gaping hole in the archer that had been created when Phil Coulson had “died”. 

Barton needed a... a goldfish, a dog, some safe, loyal bodies to keep his focus. FarmersWithFetishes.com had been happy to comply when he needed to sort through their entire client database (after an NSA court order). And Laura had just popped right up. Shiny faced, two kids, widowed, lonely. Not so much gullible as… trusting. She trusted “HwkGuy81” quickly after a few messages turned into hourly conversations. Nick deliberately overlooked her first few hints at skype, then address the issue directly, explaining his security clearance precluded such activity. However, they could talk on the phone? It was almost too easy to use one of Stark’s voder-vocoder circuits to turn his own California business tone into Barton’s Midwestern sludge.

By the time six months had passed, Laura had already been talking about “Clint” to her kids for a while, so it was a (comparatively) simple process to ‘write’ the online dating history into Clint’s memory, including the sit-com meeting with Laura in the grocery aisle. Safer to tell people that one. 

Fury’d sent a handle to supervise all their initial interactions in person, embedded as a neighbor who quickly became close to Laura. (Honestly, it was a retirement plan for Agent Shadow, who wanted to actually watch her grandkids grow up in a small town, instead of through a phone or a video chat.) Laura never corrected Clint when he talked about how they met, though she did get a funny look on her face. _What did she really think, at times like that?_

Bah. Trying to figure out what subs were thinking was an exercise in futility, sometimes. Besides, the plan worked, hadn't it? Barton was tucked away, ready to use when needed; Coulson was in the thick of it with that hacker kid and May there to keep her eye on him. It had all worked out. As usual, Nick congratulated himself, steepling his fingers in front of him on his desk.  On to the next phase. 

He glanced at a folder on his desk. “Starlord? What kind of shitty name is that?”


	40. I'm just a soul whose intentions are good, oh god, please don't let me be misunderstood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I stg there is a happy ending somewhere and this fic will finally end. At least the drama will end, I may feel moved to add various vignettes. But rest assured, an end is in sight.

Clint was committed to trying to fully bring Phil out of this stupor without any lies or evasion. So basically he had to not say much at all beyond, “Help, Phil, I need you, I need your help, Phil.”  After a quick prayer to Thor and any of his ever watching friends who might be able to help, it slowly seemed to work. Coulson’s eyes blinked, out of sync at first but slowly fluttering open, seeming surprised to find himself cradled in Clint’s arms with the other man peering anxiously mere inches from his face. 

 

“Um… hi there?”

“Clint?”

“Hmm?”

“Did I … did I swoon?” ( _ Oh gods, please do not let me have turned into a soap opera caricature of a sub just because my dom doesn’t want me anymore. _ )

“Uh… no, not exactly, Just kinda took a break from total consciousness, briefly.”

“Oh.”

There followed a brief delay; Phil’s eyes drifted shut again. 

After a few minutes with no discernable changes, Clint decided to try something.

“Phil?”

“Mhmm…”

“I’m not leaving you. This being apart thing is over, for us. I want that to be clear.”

Dark brown eyes flashed open at this, utterly cogent and clear, sharp with questions and doubts.

“I’m not!” Clint reiterated with exasperation. “I can’t just walk away from Laura though. It’s going to be a process. I’ll need your help.”

Phil struggled a bit but pulled himself into a seated position.

“You’re saying you want the help of your previous submissive in disentangling your life with your present submissive and her children who, by all accounts, adore you? Clint, have you thought this through?”

Clint didn’t reply, because of course, Phil was right. It would be messy, and painful. There was no way this process wouldn’t hurt all of them, in some way. 

“I have thought it through,” he replied levely, “and you- and we’re- worth it. I know that now. I remember it, and also I just know it. In here.” He pointed to his stomach.

“Not in your lacy red satin heart?” 

“No, in my gut, you weirdo. You, Phil Coulson. You’re it for me. Everyone else is like, like a placeholder in my life, trying to fill a role that is really meant to be yours. Even when I didn’t know you existed.”

 

“Clint- I- I didn’t know. I thought you were happy, content at least?”

“Laura is great, and the kids-  I think half the reason  I married Laura was because I liked the pre-made family, who all seemed to need me so badly. But I never needed them, not like this.” Clint gestured at the two of them, sitting across from each other, still on the floor, memory machine’s solid state systems still a very faint hum in the background.

“I need you. And, because I haven’t said it in years, I love you, Phil, you’re supposed to be mine. Please help me?”

  
A dom taking ownership. A sub offering service. It wasn’t quite as formal as any commitment ceremony or legal marriage, but all the right elements were there. 


End file.
